


Attention

by dianekepler, redwing907



Series: Perquisitum [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Brotherhood of Steel - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Deaths, Crushes, Dirty Talk, Dreams, F/M, Funerals, Het, Historical References, Literary References, Love Triangles, Mentions of Slash, Pegging, Sexual Mishaps, The Citadel, Voyeurism, a game: spot the self-inserts, drawn-out sex scenes, for reals we have a g-d- dramatis personae up in here, literally entire chapters of just smut, lore-heavy writing, plenty more new ones, plenty of familiar faces, political factions, power armor porn, rowboats, sex instruction, speeches — so many speeches, swearing like soldiers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-08-27 18:29:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16707772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwing907/pseuds/redwing907
Summary: While managing the stresses and complications of being the Citadel’s first female Elder, Sarah Lyons must decide what to do about that old tradition of summoning personnel to attend to her physical needs.





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with power armor — and the only one, as far as I was concerned — was it made a person think they were taller than in real life. A vague memory tickled the back of my mind. What was the saying? Eight feet tall and bulletproof? Sans armor, it was more like five-nothing and…

The corner of my mouth quirked. Well, probably still bulletproof. At least eighty-five percent. Assholes had to get the drop on me first, after all.

Ninety-five, then.

Short was still short, though. As in too short to reach the pre-war Metro maintenance logs Kodiak had found in L’Enfant. There just had to be a connection between the Blue and White lines, even if it was nothing more than an electrical conduit. A conduit could be chiseled into an opening, an opening could be blasted into a tunnel. Even with our depleted resources after the battle for Adams, gaining control of the Metro would give us an undeniable edge in the Capital wasteland. Combine that with our newly-acquired air support and there would be no stopping the Brotherhood of Steel. _Absolutum dominium_.

I shifted my stance and grip on the shelf. There would be no _absolutum_ anything without this damn intel. The crescents of my fingernails scraped on the bottom edge of the soft-covered logbook but still came back wanting. Whoever had tucked it up so high would…

A frustrated sigh scattered motes of dust into the air. Laugh. They’d laugh if they saw their Elder struggling this way and with good reason. I was ten the last time I’d been caught in a situation like this, tiptoed and trembling with the effort it took to reach the box of Fancy Lads Father had hidden in this outer room of his quarters. Maybe on this very shelf, although there'd been fewer books back then.

How many had I personally retrieved for him since that day? I touched the gilt-lettered spine of one of them. On the Origin of Species, found inexplicably inside a refrigerator in a police station in Germantown.

Remembering that was when sorrow rolled in, bitter as the forbidden snack cakes had been sweet.

My grief was same reason I’d been putting off reorganizing Father's book collection. Texts the scribes didn't want but might still be useful. There was history, so it wouldn’t be repeated. Biographies, to warn or inspire. Literature and poetry, to try and understand the human condition, not to mention read a restless daughter to sleep at night.

One thousand and one nights. That was how long it seemed since Father left me. Left all of us.

I swallowed past a tight throat as my boot heels thudded back onto the floor and I leaned against the shelf for support. A moment of weakness is all I allowed myself. Three deep, in-and-out breaths were all I had to spare.

A cough cleared the obstruction and fierce, rapid blinks took care of anything else. Even with our decisive victory at Adams and Project Purity online, there was no time for sniveling. Not with the entire wasteland clawing at the Citadel's gate. Not with my personal strain of learning to navigate the thousand and one responsibilities Father used to shoulder daily, seamlessly, and without complaint. For decades.

The solar bore witness to how I was still learning all these duties. Aside from the bookshelves stuffed to overflowing, there were inventories, logs, maps, and file folders stacked up everywhere they could be. So many crates brought up from storage were serving as makeshift tables that it was getting hard to move in here, never mind find what I was looking for a regular basis.

I needed air.

The Citadel had no parapets, but there were places on the upper level where the roof had fallen in. Climbing up to my favorite one let me feel the stiff wind off the Potomac and take in the cobalt sky. Clouds puffed out like the sails of a flimsy ship some wastelanders were piloting downriver. It never failed to amaze me how they didn't drown, especially this early in the year, when gusts could whip themselves into gales with practically no warning at all.

Mercs crouched by the trader’s gunwales, on the lookout for whatever the wasteland cared to throw at them. Rad-clams, maybe, or a knot of ghouls tangled together into some kind of raft. It was a rare thing that surprised me anymore.

Star Paladin Cross took up a position next to me and we watched the little nutshell bob along.

“Idiots,” she said.

Habit kept me from shrugging. Years in power armor will do that to a person. “They might make it this time.”

Arguing with no words spoken or muscles moved was one of Cross’s talents. Dissent without disrespect — towards me, at least. These wastelanders were another story. If they could make that hairpin turn and tack up the Anacostia, they’d be in range of Rivet City’s big guns and nearly safe. But a band of mutants on the far bank had seen them. Now the ship’s pilot ducked behind a makeshift shield while their marines-for-hire took potshots at green skin. I looked on, still optimistic. The hunting rifles muties favored were unreliable at more than 250 yards. Less, if the shooters had sausage fingers and pea brains.

Then a roar split the afternoon. The kind that turned initiates’ knees to water and their guts to pulp if they didn't find cover because what came next had enough strength to pound any unarmored brother or sister flat. We’d been tracking this particular behemoth for awhile. The day watch had named it Spot because of a dark, wrinkled cyst on the side of its misshapen head that’d grown over part of its face. A mole as big as a mole rat. Disgusting.

“He doesn’t approve of ships,” Abigail Cross said drily.

Something about the craft did seem to be agitating the brute. It might have had to do with being unable to chase the ship down, though return fire embedding itself in the upper layers of its hide couldn't be helping. As usual, wastelanders aimed at whatever scared them, not at what might actually bleed. No discipline, no tactics. Just people clinging to life.

I wanted them safe, but there was no time to organize a sortie, especially not once a mailbox arced out across the river. Bad design and heavy cargo had made the ship slow enough that Spot’s very first throw took out the mainsail and a good-sized chunk of the mast. It was over. Whoever wasn’t pulverized or drowned would die of shock when their sinking ship met the icy water.

None of these people were ours. Still, I felt the weight of lives lost, investors ruined, supplies gone to waste. Ironic that this part of the Citadel’s walls, the only place shielded from sniper fire, was where I came to relax.

“Don’t,” Cross said.

My sigh was so pointed I could have been a squire denied Blamco because there was perfectly good razorgrain-mash bubbling away in the mess. “Are you telling me you have The Sight now?”

“No.” She stood perfectly straight, still gazing out over the water.

“Then what was I thinking?”

“You were thinking it would be better to hunt that thing down when the mud is still frozen. Easier to maneuver, better for the gear.”

I scowled at her. “Hell and damnation, Cross, I’m allowed to set foot outside.”

“To stay sharp, not to go chasing down the biggest abomination in the city. You’re our leader now, Sarah. Let the Pride handle these bigger risks until your position is more secure.”

Cross wasn’t what I’d call maternal. But there were times when she brought as much comfort as being curled up in the solar with a mug of strong coffee and new maps to unravel. It might have had to do with spending most of the journey east tucked in beside Cross as she drove the big cargo hauler while Father and the others took point. My memories of the crossing were sharp, even though I'd been only three. Sometimes I still felt that young. Like now, with my childish urge to make faces.

“I’ve been cooped up in here all winter,” I reminded Cross, pulling my leather coat more tightly around me. Worn over my contact suit, it was more practical than Father’s robes for the times I needed to hop into power armor. The increasingly rare times.

“And I've told you, there are brothers who can help with that.”

I stopped just short of an eye roll. “Please.”

The wind howled around us. Cross waited for a break in it before she spoke again. “Give me a real objection and I'll leave you alone.”

My arms were only crossed because this coat was so thin. I needed to give it to the scribes to have it lined. “I can find my own partners.”

She pursed her lips. “You think Owyn couldn’t?”

Mention of Father’s personal affairs made me want to run and hide, but I was an Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel for fuck’s sake. “That was different. Father never wanted to remarry. Plus it was only, what, a handful of women over the years?”

Cross belly-laughed into the sunshine as I realized my phrasing needed work. It took the old veteran whole minutes to settle down.

“Let’s pick this apart,” she beamed, ”these ‘handfuls of women’.”

This time I did roll my eyes. Fuck it, I was too senior for Cross to put me on KP for insolence. “Let’s not.”

“Elder, I insist.”

“Fine, but later. I have work to do.”

The steps we’d cut into the concrete were already worn from years under the heels of power armor. I had to pay attention to my footing. Still, I could practically feel Cross grinning the whole way down.

The bailey, as usual, was full of initiates and knights honing their battle skills. I watched Paladin Krieg drilling two squads of wasteland-born brothers and sisters sprinting up and over a concrete barrier we'd set up.

"Kappa squad, on my mark. Two, one, go!"

"For Elder Lyons!" cried the knight leading the charge. I blinked. That was a new one.

But the knight was probably just grasping at straws. Krieg pushed his handpicked recruits harder than any other paladin did and for good reason. Father had done his best to give promising locals a chance, but plenty of us still saw anyone who wasn't born in one of our bunkers as outsiders. These young men and women would have to keep proving themselves for years to come.

Cross and I were waiting by the time the squad jogged back into formation, puffing out clouds in the cold morning air. I waited until Krieg's iota squad was charging the wall before questioning the knight who'd led the charge.

“Name?” I asked. He’d been with us only a year. Sometimes their faces still blurred together.

"Danse." He did his best to breathe through his nose.

"Knight Danse, I have a question for you.” This was a test. I shared Krieg's view that anyone who couldn’t think when his blood was up might as well be a raider. “Was that my Father’s name you just mentioned, or mine?”

“The Elder’s, ma’am”

A dodge? Or just good sense. “Why call out your Elder's name at all?”

“Because of the Codex, ma'am. 'For the Elder is of the Brotherhood, yet is the Brotherhood, for his wisdom shall guide us from the midday conflict to the moonless depths of the watch.’ Chapter two, verse one-thirteen."

With hands clasped behind me I asked, "Who is your Codex Studies instructor?"

“Scribe Quinlan." The knight's dark eyes were still locked respectfully on something in the middle distance.

I considered the precision of his crew cut and how his stature put him above everyone else in the squad. "And where does he put your reading skill?"

"Tech-three, ma'am."

That was better than some of our legacy scribes and they'd been learning to read since before they could hold a gun. And quoting the Codex verbatim?

"Then tell Scribe Quinlan that you're excused from Codex Studies until the job I have for you is done. Take your free time during those hours and report to the solar in the evenings after chow. Got it?"

The knight paled under his tan. “Affirmative. Thank you, ma'am.”

"Paladin," I gave Krieg a nod. “Keep turning out recruits like this and we'll double your water ration. Carry on."

"Elder. Star Paladin." He saluted both of us, his half-smile framed by a chestnut beard fading to grey, before turning back to his charges. "All right, Cutler, you're up. Ready."

As kappa squad mounted a new offensive, we heard yet another war cry. I had it straight from Krieg that any of his knights who repeated one on the same day wound up de-gunking salvaged tech before it went on to the scribes, a universally hated task that was normally given to initiates or misbehaving squires.

On the far side of the bailey a troupe of older squires, all well-behaved, was out for its mid-morning break. As quick and agile as lizards, some scrambled up to the best vantage points to watch the adults. Others talked in small groups or held their own games and competitions.

"I think your suitor wants a word with you,” Cross pointed her chin at Squire Maxson near the entrance to A Ring. He stood apart from the others. To the untrained eye he was just neatening his new field jacket and cap — the uniform I’d had made so the squires would look more orderly. But neither Cross nor I were fooled.

“You’ll give him a complex,” I warned with a shake of my head.

“One more, then.” she said and moved off to where another group of trainees was looking less than optimally busy.

Young Arthur had made a less-than-favorable impression on Cross and plenty of others when he’d first arrived from the West. I’d barely noticed him, being well into my very important knighthood at the time. But one of my conditions for making Sentinel, set by Father over my strenuous objections, was a summer of working with the squires. It had opened my eyes to plenty of things, including Arthur’s perseverance. It wasn’t that the latest Maxson never felt scared or discouraged or came up short, he just pushed through it. He also drilled harder than anyone his age. That year, I found myself teaching him protocols usually reserved for knights. Not only did he soak up every lesson, but he parlayed this knowledge into respect from peers who’d been ostracizing him before I'd taken the squires in hand.

That old saying about steel breeding true might apply to Maxson. Some were starting to agree this squire might one day grow into the kind of leader our Founder was. Others, like Cross, would believe nothing before they saw it.

“Good morning, Elder Lyons,” Arthur said when I was in earshot.

“Good morning, Squire. Any reports?”

“Our egg-gathering op was successful, ma’am.” He tugged at his sleeves. The uniform was an improvement over the wasteland rags he’d been wearing last year. But he was growing like a tarberry patch and his wrist bones were already past the oddly worn-out cuffs of his jacket.

“I’m happy to hear that. Radgull eggs are exactly what we need this time of year. You got how many?”

“Thirty ma’am.”

“Thirty,” I exclaimed. All the squires glowed when we praised them and he was no exception. “Where did that rank in your cohort?”

“Number one, ma’am,” Squire Maxson squared his slight shoulders. “Knight Dawes said it was because I climbed higher than anybody.”

“I think that calls for a game of chess, if you can spare the time.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he beamed, blue eyes flashing.

“All right, then we’ll have one after your next recitation.”

Arthur, for a moment, looked crestfallen. I’d been tutoring him in history using Father’s books and had found out he was the opposite of me at his age. Lessons that used to bore me into bad behavior invigorated the boy. And though I used to love any kind of attention, Arthur would rather face a nest of radroaches with just a combat knife than speak in front of an audience.

But Squire Maxson, to my approval, sucked it up long enough to give me a polite ad victoriam as I crossed from the Bailey into A Ring and from there to my least favorite part of the Citadel, the Lab.

And as a squire, when sitting and squinting had been two of my least favorite activities, I'd spent far too many hours down here doing data entry. Machine oil, cold concrete, and sheer stuffiness always hung like cobwebs in the air. No matter how much the scribes tinkered, the vents were never up to scratch.

Head Scribe Rothchild would be far from enthusiastic about seeing me either. He’d been fractious ever since the decision to crate Liberty Prime. I understood Rothchild's devotion to the giant robot, but we didn't have the space or the resources to build him back up. The best we could hope for with these resource shortages was to rehab the parts, pack them away, and wait for better times.

So as I descended, all the weariness and weight of my rank pressed down on me like a Corvega chassis on a hydraulic jack.

I was deep in the hackles-raising debate with Rothchild about the timeframe in which the crating-up needed to happen, when I noticed Squire Eugenia Quinlan, Scribe Quinlan’s oldest, who occasionally helped in the Lab. She hovered with the uncertainty of one of our newly-minted lancers in one of our newly-acquired vertibirds.

“Elder Lyons,” she said.

It took an instant too long to realize she meant me, which gave Rothchild time to round on her with the speed of a ghoul, snarling in much the same way.

“Squire! The Elder and I were in the midst of a discussion!”

“S-sorry,” she quavered, doing her best to keep valiantly still.

I winced inwardly. For as long as I’d known him Rothchild had focused on one, and only one, task at a time. Redirecting his attention used to make the man irritable. These days, irritable was his standard. Anyone who tripped his breaker got the verbal equivalent of a plasma bolt to the eardrums.

“Reginald,” I sighed. Hearing his name usually calmed the man. “What is it, Squire?”

“Knight Captain Durga asks to see you before you leave the lab, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Tell her I’m on my way.”

The small Quinlan offered a salute that was so stiff she was in danger of pulling a muscle. Rothchild seethed at her departing back. “Back in Owyn’s day, squires would wait to be acknowledged.”

I let that hang for three seconds. But Rothchild stayed unaware of the slight, never mind the feelings he’d stirred. Yes, if only Father was still with us, making the Citadel purr along like a well-tuned gatling laser. Hunting muties and lurks in all kinds of weather was a gentle brahmin ride compared to my current set of duties.

Still, Rothchild kept gnawing his bone. “None of them have any sense of —“

The zip of an air wrench broke into his monologue. He zeroed in on a group of scribes taking an enormous housing off the one-and-only upright leg of Liberty Prime. The Head Scribe was on them in seconds, so fearsome that they all flinched and nearly took their hands off the metal they were supporting. It would be grounds for a laugh if they weren’t in danger of crushing themselves.

The man who used to be Father's closest confidante railed at his workers for a solid five minutes before he huffed off in another direction, forgetting me completely. And this time I may have let my feelings show.

It wasn't disrespect. Reports of Reginald’s absent-mindedness have been filtering in for a while now. Our robot medic Sawbones had even found him wandering the halls at zero-dark-thirty last week.

I drank in another breath of stale air and headed back to see what Durga had in store. Complaints, it turned out. Weapons were coming in thrashed nearly to pieces and some of Durga’s new staff were so clueless she wanted to string them from the upper walkways by their toes. I listened, I nodded. What would be done? Everything we agreed to last week after her report in the Great Hall, and if she'd have patience, it would be worked out soon.

I didn’t miss Durga’s narrowed eyes or their message. _In your father’s day …._


	2. Chapter 2

Though I sometimes ate in the mess hall, Cross and other officers usually joined me in the suite of rooms called the solar. Many found it a strange name for a place with no windows. The trick was knowing it came from _solus_ for "alone", though only the back bedroom was private. Plenty of others visited the front room with all its tables, chairs, and bookshelves I could never reach the tops of.

Cross held the tray with our meals as I cleared a spot big enough for two bowls and two cups of aqua pura. Her eyes stayed on me as I worked, making me feel like a negligent squire for letting this room get so cluttered. 

“My, how tall you are,” I observed in the driest of voices. “And you can read. Maybe you should help Knight Danse rearrange this mess.”

A broad grin slid across her face. “I’m honored, Elder. But I’m afraid the job would be too much of a ... handful for me.”

Pointedly, I plopped down in my chair and took hold of my spoon. Only after chuckling maliciously did Cross seat herself, settling down with a wince that caused me a moment of concern.

“Your hip again? You should have Rothchild scan it.”

Abigail gave me a significant look. “I’ll take my chances with Sawbones, thanks."

My spoon clinked into my bowl as I sat back. "I saw him today. He's getting worse."

“You’re right.” Cross stirred her portion around without further comment. 

I looked past my advisor at a family of maps rolled up and braced in a corner as I worked out what to say. "I've been taking it hard, but it's somehow worse for Reginald with Father gone.”

Cross tilted her head at me, steel grey hair and the pouches at her jawline only tacking themselves onto my long list of concerns. She took a spoonful and ate it slowly before going on. “When you've known someone that long, losing them means losing part of yourself. Sometimes a big part." 

“He was my father,” I said. "What's closer than that?" 

"Nothing. But did you think he would outlive you?"

I worked my jaw, full of everything and nothing to say. Nearly all of us expected to end our lives outside the Citadel’s walls. Dying of natural causes like Father had just didn't seem right. Wasn’t all this technology we were saving supposed to prevent that? For Cross, Reginald had taken pre-war tech from a trauma center to replace ventricles and an aorta shredded by shrapnel to augment her earlier enhancements.

With my appetite slacking off, I started thinking more about the world outside our walls. “Did you see that report of a vertibird sighting north of Takoma Park? I heard it wasn’t one of ours.”

Cross switched gears smoothly. “If any Enclave remnants dig in to that National Guard site nearby, it’ll be hell to get them out again.”

I pushed chunks of meat and tato around. I’d spent sleepless nights turning all of these possibilities over in my mind. None of them gave me the warm fuzzies. Gut-clenching dread, yes. “We should send three units to make sure that sector’s clear.”

“I’d normally agree.” Cross fingered her bottom lip thoughtfully. “But the report Berrings filed an hour ago said Talon company mercs managed to chase those greenskins out of the trenches in front of the Capitol building. Berrings has had to double his patrols. Says it won’t be long until Talon takes a stab at overrunning the Monument itself.”

“Bold sons of bitches,” I groused. “With the Enclave on its last legs they’ve jumped a whole link in the food chain.”

Cross tilted her bowl to scoop up what was left. “I bet they’re smart enough to realize that we took plenty of hits at Adams.”

I pushed my bowl completely away and leaned forward, scowling at the scarred tabletop underneath my folded hands. Being trapped inside the Citadel with enemies carving chunks out of the Capital was too much. As the metal legs of my chair scraped across scarred linoleum with a ear-gouging screech, I got up and started moving around the room. How many caps would I pay for just one day to engage those genital parasites?

"Are you pacing or prowling?" Cross said, after I'd done a few back-and-forths of the lone uncluttered path in the room.

"Does it matter?"

"It's important for my memoirs," she said and made keyboarding motions. "'Elder Lyons prowled the room like an irritated yao guai'."

“Cross.” My patience snapped. "I have enough to worry about without my senior staff acting like this is some kind of colossal joke."

"Sarah," she said. Her gentle reprimand stung. Abigail had been trying to jolt me out of my funk, not put me down.

"I'm sorry." My hand went to the shelves in front of me. If Father wasn’t here to lend me strength anymore, they might as well. “Let’s go over this in the Great Hall tomorrow. See what the others think.”

"Don't apologize. But do tell me the last time you took a break."

"When I made Paladin," I muttered, still irate. The titles in front of me were starting to get misty. I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Then I'd say you're about due. Why don't you let that knight straighten up a few things besides books?”

I looked over my shoulder with a sigh louder than hot iron being quenched. “Will you give it a rest?" 

"Your trouble," she said, outstretched legs and crossed ankles now blocking my path. "Is you're against the whole idea."

“Wrong. Attending makes sense if the Elder's a man.”

“It makes sense regardless. Did you know Themis had heirs with a consort and was attended the rest her life?”

My brain felt like a frag mine some mutie had stomped on. “How do you even know that?” I threw my hands and eyebrows up. “It’s damn sure not in the Scrolls.”

“It’s in the Archives. Amazing what you can find if you look around.”

I hiked a brow up to cruising altitude. “Is that why you keep quoting Themis all the time?”

Cross flashed me a grin. “Could be.”

I came back to the table to sit down before Abigail said anything that made me fall down. “How long has attending been a thing anyway?” 

She pushed out her jaw. “Hard to say. It was common when I had the honor and I'm practically prehistoric."

For a minute my heart stopped. Then Star Paladin Shock and Awe rolled her eyes. “Get your mind out of the lurk nest Sarah. I served in the West, not here.”

Thank fuck. Knowing about Father's liaisons was hard enough without adding a gruff and somewhat mechanized Cross to the mix. Also, it tickled my curiosity. Bouncing in my seat was un-Elderly, but the urge did grip me for a second.

“With who?”

She frowned. “I don’t attend and tell. All I’ll say is I was younger than you are — and less of a prude.”

"I'm not a prude," I griped, but then caught on to her diversion tactic and started doing the math. “Wait, you and … Goodridge? Holy shit, was it?"

Cross folded her arms. ”Was it what?" 

"A good ridge?"

It was her enhancements that let Cross hit me square in the face with her balled-up napkin before I could even flinch. As I bent to pick it up she said, “The only reason you think this is in any way strange is because Owyn and his partners were so discreet."

It was true. Father’s sensitivity to what I might think left me literally in the dark. Some nights, before I was old enough to bunk down with the other squires, I was sent to “assist” the watch. I used to love staying up late, hearing stories of brave knights and vile abominations. Night-vision goggles made the wasteland come alive with crows and bloatflies. I could even see the warm lumps of mole rats sleeping underground. When I came back, chilled and bright-eyed, Father listened to my tales of adventure and then tucked me in between clean sheets. It wasn’t until years later, over whispers in the barracks and rumors in the mess hall, that I figured any of it out. Even then, I never knew which sisters it was.

A rap on the door interrupted my thoughts, though it sounded more like a kick.

"Come," I said.

Another thunk. 

"I said come in.”

But my words fell into silence. I had to wrest the door open for whoever was stupid enough … oh.

Two knights with a storage crate slung between them bumped and scraped their way past. I could already see how neither one of them was familiar with the physics of these things. Danse being taller was also making Cutler a victim of gravity.

“No, here, get it —“ the wiry, sandy-haired knight grumbled under his breath.

“Wait, I need to —“ Danse wasn't making life easier. He faced away from where he gripped the box, right next to its archive number and contents. If they’d been facing each other, Cutler might’ve had some relief. Instead, the whole thing was an exercise in comedy.

“No, to your right,” the shorter knight muttered. “Dammit, Danse.”

The taller man stage-whispered. “She is right there.” 

At least they’d had read the note on my door and gone to pick up the crate before reporting in.

“All right, you two. Set that down before you kill someone. Next to the table. Yes, I promise there is a there’s table under all of that.”

The pair lurched forward. I’d held back so many eye rolls already that day, it was a wonder I wasn’t seeing double. The crate had a dinged corner, too, though seeing Cutler wince as my focus zeroed on it, I decided then and there to take the bullet for that one. Jameson, our head archivist, wouldn’t dare take me to task for damaging one of her carefully maintained containers like she would these two.

Leaning forward, Cross bent her neck to catch sight of the designation on the crate. “You’re bringing more books in here?” she asked incredulously.

“Everything needs to be sorted and catalogued, including what’s in storage. Cutler, you’re dismissed, thank you. Danse, you do know how to type, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“All right. I’ll have you start… shit,” I trailed off.

Where, exactly? Every shelf and table was chock full. Crates identical to the new one were stacked wherever there was a few spare cubic feet, two and three high in some places.

I threw my hands up. “Pick any shelf. Pull everything off it and use that terminal over there to start documenting what we have. Start making towers of books that belong together and if you find anything out of the ordinary, let me know.”

Danse thumped his chest with a big fist.

“Good man. Before you start, see that top shelf. No, over there.” I pointed him in the right direction. “Now see that dark blue book and the roll of maps next to it?”

He got them without my having to ask. Paladin Gunny, everyone’s first drill instructor, had once hit an especially green crop of recruits with: “Most of you couldn’t drum up “initiative” if you stole every letter off of every sign in the Capital.” That hadn’t been Danse’s cohort but he’d apparently learned the lesson.

Cross started to rise, but I waved her back down. “Stay for a few minutes, would you Cross? I’d like your opinion on something.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall and inclined her head. “I have this year’s initiates to terrify, but they can wait. Anticipation makes their fear all the more succulent.”

I leveled a quelling look in her direction and turned to Danse, who’d actually backed up a step. “She’s kidding.”

Cross showed her teeth. “No, I’m not.” Then, turning to me, she said, “What do you have?”

I unfurled the maps Danse had brough across the newest storage crate, weighing down the corners with whatever was handy so Cross could get a look.

“What we need is to find is some connection between Anacostia, here, and the parts of the Metro we’ve already mapped.”

“You still think now is the time to look for new stations? After what Adams took out of us?”

“We’ve got that new blood from Chicago. This might be Cicero’s chance to prove himself.”

“The one he’s been waiting for so patiently,” Abigail said with heaps of irony. Paladin Cicero had already shown himself to be the most ambitious of all the personnel he’d brought from the Brotherhood’s stronghold in the Midwest.

“We need to get in before Talon or anybody else does, that’s for damn sure. Anyway, this —“ I patted the cover of the logbook “— is full of pre-war maintenance records. Mostly who repaired what and when. But it’s the little nuggets of information I’m after. Construction details, supply lists. We need to locate stations we don't know yet and then look for ways in.”

Our scouts' painstakingly hand-drawn maps served to identify cave-ins and reroutes we'd found. Metro cars could be cut through with a welding torch and concrete could be drilled and chipped through, but there wasn’t anything that could easily shift tons of rock and dirt.

Cross flipped through the logbook. “There is some strange shorthand in here.” 

“That’s half my problem. Like where the hell is FDR Island? I’ve gone through all our records, asked every scribe, but nobody knows.”

“Anchorage Memorial,” floated down. It came from the knight behind us, who turned a dire shade of pink and stammered an apology when he realized he’d spoken out of turn.

Cross tutted at him. “Son, get your ass over here and help your Elder out.” One of her booted feet shoved another chair towards Danse, nearly catching him in the kneecaps.

For fuck’s sake. Did she have to be so obvious? I shot her a glare that asked as much, but Star Paladin Abigail Cross only beamed at me, again showing all of her teeth. Then, when my irritation faded, it hit me. Soldiers like Danse had lived for years in the wasteland. I hadn’t thought to ask a single one of them if they knew of any place names different from the ones we used.

Paper. We needed paper, and pencils. I hunted for the supplies and turned to find Danse at work already, finger hovering over one of the maps and brows drawn together in concentration.

When the knight saw me watching, he said, “See this?”

I peered down at where his fingertip was touching the map and shook my head. “We’ve been through Anchorage Memorial. Nothing but mirelurks that way.”

He nodded. “You’re right. But here and here —“ he touched two spots on the map “— are sewer access points. I’ve been through this one.” His finger landed on a point closest to what, according to him, was also called FDR Island. “You can take it all the way down here.” Now his finger slid to a point halfway to Rivet City. “If we go along there, we might find some way to get down into a station.”

Stunned at the possibilities he’d pulled just from one little sector of the map, I sank down on my haunches and held onto the storage crate to steady myself. 

“Holy brahmin balls. With intel like that, we could actually make this happen. Cross?” I angled my head towards her.

She was leaning back in her chair with a very satisfied look on her face. “Make it happen, Elder.”

Sternly, I pointed a finger in her direction. “Can it.”

Danse tilted his dark head to watch the exchange. But I waved him back to work. Spearing my supposedly trusted advisor with a fierce look, I added, “This isn’t… that.”

She ignored me and pushed herself to her feet. “You two don’t need this old duenna here. Have a pleasant evening.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hush,” he said.

I nodded and licked my lips. My reward was the brush of a fingertip against the hollow of my hipbone. I wanted to push up into the touch but for some reason I couldn’t move.

One of his knees was pressing warmly up between my legs. I had to bite my bottom lip to keep another sound in.

He ran a thumb over my mouth, soothing away the bite marks. Opportunist Sarah parted her lips and tongued the pad of his thumb, swirling in tiny circles. He made an approving sound and let me have some more. Delicately, I bit down and sucked. I gasped when he withdrew.

“Don’t…” The word slipped out.  

“Don’t what?” came the oddly patient question.

“Don’t … stop. Please.”

“Please what?”

My hips rolled in a supple figure eight. It was my silent answer. Not good enough, though.

“I’ll repeat myself once. Please what?” There was a tone now. An edge.

“Touch me … do whatever you want.”

That was when I burst awake in a startled sweat.

My alarm clock looked poised to strike, so I switched it off and dragged a weary hand down my face. What a bizarre dream. Who was that guy and why had I -- why was I still so turned on?

Orange light from the electric heater let me find my desk and turn on the lamp there. Just one tap on my terminal's keyboard brought up all the internal mail messages that had trickled in over the course of the night. Too many, which meant no time to do anything about this spring lake in my underwear. Fuck.

I twisted the heater's knob to "off”, picked up the terrycloth robe that was the only non-regulation item of clothing I owned, and got into the morning's reports.

PT came after that. Then a quick wash and chow.

More reports faced me in the Great Hall. They spoke of chronic supply shortages, three lancers down with cholera -- fucking cholera, I was going to murder whoever was on sanitation -- at Adams, some traders delayed, others trying to charge premium rates for their shoddy wares, even squires making strange alterations to their new uniforms. It never ended. Before 0930 I was ready to jump back into the solar and spend the rest of the day there.

The highlight of my morning was a trip outside. Paladin Cicero had finally convinced me his demonstration was worth my time.

It felt right to be back in full battle dress, with the exception of the helmet I’d chosen to forgo in favor of fresh air. My armor's internal frame felt as comfortable as an old pair of slippers, servos responding fluidly, like the finely maintained war machine it was designed to be. To top it off, we had a crisp, overcast day where the sun wasn't going to blind anyone. A few drops of rain hit my cheeks and upturned nose every so often. Perfect mutie-killing weather.

And we needed it. Greenskin activity was up all across the board. That behemoth, Spot, was also still at large, so all Cross would let me do outside the Citadel's massive gate was stand on a nearby slope and watch our newest paladin show us the Hellfire power armor some soldiers were wearing at the Foundry in Chicago. She'd even come out to watch, though I knew it was less because of the demo than to keep me from getting any bright ideas and sneaking off somewhere.

"Anything on those missing supplies?" I asked as we watched one of our scribes step out of a T-45 too far gone to repair.

"You're not going to like it," Cross warned.

“Hit me.”

“Leoni’s team found the remains of the caravan during their patrol this morning. No bodies other than a half-eaten brahmin, although it's unlikely anyone survived. Everything else had been smashed to bits."

"Fuck," I exclaimed. A few scribes looked my way. I glared at them until they turned back to their crash-test dummy. "The same reason?"

"Same behemoth, different rock."

I wanted to knuckle the flat spot above my nose but had to avoid it while suited up. Nobody wanted their Elder walking around with grey smudges on her forehead.  

"Gallows is tracking it," Cross said, "along with his best scouts. They'll find out where that pus-bag of FEV is going to ground.”

"They'd better. Tell me we at least have good news about getting the aeronautics shop back online.

"We don't."

"Motherfuck." I swore again but this time under my breath. I didn't ask for specifics. Instead, I watched Paladin Cicero test the balance of the Enclave-style heavy incinerator he was wielding, the kind that had scorched my own armor more than once. He swept the barrel left to right, horizontal to vertical, and every angle in between

"Elder Lyons, we're ready," called Scribe Peabody, head of our weapons division.

The tableau looked like a grey-knight-versus-black-knight fairy tale. The Foundry’s Hellfire variant was darker than the rigs we'd taken at Adams. Tempered or treated somehow, I still hadn’t found time to read the specs. When he looked at me for permission to start, I saw how the smaller optical sensors were more orange than yellow. The respirator hoses were also configured differently.  

"All right, Paladin. Have at it."

He stood halfway between us and the empty T-45 the scribes had abandoned to its fate. Even his speaker couldn't mask the playful tone of his voice. "Sure you don't want to?"

"Trust me. I'd go until there was nothing left."

"Suit yourself," he replied and stepped over to his would-be opponent.

Cicero swept his helmet from side to side, making sure no personnel were in range before he began firing. The first short burst of napalm caught the test armor midway up the leg plating. Most of the fuel slid down the legs into a burning puddle at the base of the stand. He adjusted the angle of the nozzle, and this time the flaming fuel struck the dummy at the bottom of the torso. The napalm pooled in the wells at the top of the leg plating, burning furiously.

Cross inclined her head towards me. “Impressive.”

It really was. Even from where we stood, I could feel the heat radiating from the rapidly blackening suit of armor. I began to think that maybe I should’ve taken Cicero up on his offer. I’d always been on the receiving end of this type of ordnance, never the soldier behind the weapon. This kind of power was basic, elemental.

The Paladin continued to fire short, efficient bursts of fuel at the armor. He began to circle with light footwork, coating the air exchange tanks and release valve with liquid fire. It became obvious within thirty seconds or so that whoever might’ve been unlucky enough to be inside that suit would have no chance of survival.

Peabody gave a pre-arranged signal of a cocked elbow and clenched fist. Immediately, Cicero held fire and swung the nozzle wide of him. Garbed in heavy aprons and thick, elbow-length gloves, Peabody and his assistant, Scribe Messer, came forward and carefully took the incinerator from the Paladin as two more scribes went after the armor and the bare earth around it with dry powder extinguishers. A scattering of raindrops hissed and evaporated in tiny puffs of steam along the length of the flamer’s barrel.

Then Peabody and Messer lowered their welding masks.

I swore I could feel Cicero grinning inside his helmet when he called out. “Permission to continue?”

Without looking at Cross, I said, “Did you know they were planning this?”

“I might have heard something.”

I might have elbowed my Star Paladin in her armored ribs if we’d been alone. Instead, all I could do was give Cicero my best Caravan face and nod.

Messer was on the flamer’s trigger side. As she and Peabody held the nozzle steady, another jet of napalm arced out. The first one missed, but they adjusted their aim and caught Cicero across the torso and right arm. As they kept firing, he turned and the flames enveloped him from all sides.

Something about the plating made it shed the napalm a lot faster than the T-45. He could walk away from a lot of the damage. But even with flame clinging to him and with inky black billowing up from all around, Cicero had full mobility. He walked, crouched, and swung his arms to show us how much the suit could take, even saluting right before the scribes came over to put him out. That was a sight I wouldn’t mind springing on the Enclave, their own rigs painted with our symbols, marching out of a wall of smoke and flame.

I went over to examine the armor with Cross at my heels just as the paladin stepped down out of it. His contact suit was black. Cicero himself was well-suited for the technology he demonstrated — flame red hair and warm hazel eyes.

“Elder. Star Paladin.” He nodded and stepped back. As I began to move around the armor in clockwise circles, he did the same, only in larger, counterclockwise arcs, and while feeding me information.

“We’ve got asbestos sandwiched in between layers of nickel-chromium-molybdenum alloy. You can see a noticeable difference in thickness, but it’s also lighter. Heat resistance is 27% higher than a standard T-45.”

I glanced up and raised a brow as our orbits intersected. “And durability?”

His teeth flashed startlingly white. “Hasn’t failed me yet. Hop in.”

“It’s not calibrated,” I said. Or sanitary. Wearing someone’s armor was a lot like trying on their boots: uncomfortable and, unless they were fanatical about hygiene, not what you’d call appealing.

“Guess the scribes didn’t tell you. Sensors in the frame do a lot of that the minute you suit up.”

And he’d also anticipated the reasoning behind my unspoken reluctance. Cicero prodded an indentation in the torso of the armor, revealing a small storage compartment. A stiff gust of wind carried the harsh scent of Abraxo to my nostrils as he withdrew and swiped a cloth around the rubberized face seals and interior portions of the mask, and tucked it back into the compartment.

Then he turned back to me. I’d seen the angle of Cicero’s brow a few times over the winter, usually during hours-long poker games. It said, " _Well? What you got?"_

I wasn’t about to let this hotshot think I was squeamish or prissy, so I thumbed the release and stepped down from my suit. The grass grew haphazardly here, like a squire with too many cowlicks.

I gave my head a little toss as I passed. “We’ll see about that.”

True to Cicero’s word, his armor started adjusting the second I stepped onto the footplates. The inner frame took a while conform to my proportions. Not all the contacts on my suit lined up either, but enough did that I felt okay settling my face to the respirator and optical hookups. A tentative sniff brought only the scent of Abraxo to my nostrils.

When the suit closed up I could feel the frame settle into a better grip than I’d thought possible, given our weight and height differentials.

“How does it feel?” asked Cross. The audio pickups transmitted her voice as if there was almost nothing between us.

I took a few steps and started testing the range of motion in my arms. It felt like wearing two winter coats, but considering that it wasn’t fine tuned, it was amazing I could walk. Hell, I could probably even fight without rattling around like the last bean in a tin can.  

Apologetically, I glanced at my T-45, all slumped forward and empty-looking. She’d seen me through too much to have my head turned by this Hellfire hussy, even if it the way it held me was a little too much like this morning’s dream. Remembering that husky voice didn't help either.

The release was still in the same location as on my T-45, so I punched it and waited for the back of the suit to open. Cool, fresh air flowed in around me, making me realize just how warm it had actually been in there. Asbestos fibers and specialized alloys might reflect high temps, but they sure as shit kept them in as well.

“How do you handle that heat?” I wondered, stepping down.

The lazy smile that tugged up the corner of Cicero’s mouth bordered on insubordination. Both in him and in me having to warn my insubordinate crotch to straighten up and fly right while I was working.

He tapped one of his well-defined pec with the opposite hand. I wondered what that was supposed to mean until he said, “Cooling system.”  

That was when I noticed the tubing that ran along the insides of his arms, legs and torso. To head off the need for my own personal cooling system, I squared my shoulders and tucked my hands behind my hips. “Thank you for the demonstration, Paladin. We’ll consider your proposal to add flamers and Hellfire armor to some of our squads.”

Cicero’s fist touched his heart and he nodded. He’d been in this game long enough to know a dismissal when he heard one.  

By some minor miracle, Cross held her tongue until we were wiping down our own suits in a room not far from the repair bay. It was an area reserved for just hers and mine.

“So what do you think?” she asked in folding her rag, even though it was little more than a few rag molecules held together by sheer will. Had she brought that thing from out west?

“His ambition’s showing,” she said in that free-of-bullshit way I adored.

“Not sure if he’s aiming to train our knights or encourage more to come over from the Foundry. Maybe we should’ve held off on assigning him a Citadel squad so soon after he got here.”

“I was wondering that myself. Either way, I haven’t seen a man look at you like that since, well, they often do. Just not when you’d notice.”

I nodded, lips pursed and scrunched to one side. Cicero’s bold gaze had clung to me like napalm. “Glad you caught that too.”

“I've been catching it for awhile now,” she confirmed. “But you could do worse. Have that one attend you and rumors I hear say you won’t regret it, although your bedframe might.”

My groan of mortification only made Abigail laugh with wicked delight.  

I’d nearly banished her innuendo from my mind by the time evening rolled around and Danse showed up in the solar. He was adept at working by himself. My only order thus far was to direct any law-related books to the crates that were going back into storage. The rules of the old world didn’t apply anymore.

Tonight I looked Danse’s way every so often as he moved between terminal, shelves and the many towers of books he kept stepping around. Little pockets of meaning were starting to take shape on shelves. American history. Freud and Jung. Books about space exploration. There was even a section on one shelf where he was lining up the adventure stories that used to thrill little Sarah. _Treasure Island_ . _Beau Geste_ . _Tales of the Silver Shroud_.

Meanwhile my rad-beaver lodge of Metro maps and logbooks was growing. We'd made a four-by-four cube of crates to extend the surface of the oblong dining table. I concentrated on what the other wasteland-born knights and scribes already knew about FDR Island. I even questioned the traders who were starting to trickle in. But making sense of all this intel was one hell of a job.

Tiredly, I knuckled the bridge of my nose. Whether or not Danse's lead panned out, I’d instructed Gallows and his scouts to bring back a mess of young mirelurks. For some reason the ones that lived underground were more tender and flavorful than the ones that infested lakes and riversides. But contemplating mirelurk stew led me back to our bare larders and other shortages. We weren’t starving, but were still heading out of the leanest time of the year and that missing caravan wouldn’t help.

There was a bottle of whiskey calling my name from inside the cabinet across the room. A stiff drink would loosen me up. Then I’d keep working.

I'd splashed some amber into a glass and was letting the first sip coat my tongue when Danse cleared his throat.

"Ma'am, I found this."

He handed me a yellowed envelope that was not completely flat. In Father's slanted hand, across the front, was "for Margot".  

"Thank you, Knight." I weighed the little packet, wondering who the hell Margot was. Code for one of Father's attendees? "Which book?"

Danse cocked his head to an awkward angle and read the title off the spine. " _Presidential Speeches: Adams to Zemeckis_."

There was no other writing on the back of the envelope, and it wasn't sealed. This, and the hardness of whatever was inside emboldened me to look. The last thing I needed to see was some embarrassing love letter.

Instead there was just a metal plate, notched on one side and with a bumpy circuit board attached to the flat of it. These key-cards popped up in the wasteland once in awhile, sometimes literally opening doors.

“For Margot…” Blankly, I stared at Danse, talking more to myself than him. “I don’t know who Margot is. Or what.”

The name was snagging something in my memory, but there was so much I’d missed after Project Purity. I didn’t come out of that weeks-long coma until just before Adams. Father hadn’t wanted to clear me for duty but —

I shot up out of my chair and grabbed Danse’s arm excitedly. “Adams! This is related to Adams and our friend from 101! Clear a spot on the table, I’ll be right back.”

Many of the sensitive files related to Project Purity, and by extension, the vault dweller, were kept securely in the wall safe of the back room. I ran back there, careened off the doorframe, and started spinning the dial. I remembered now. M.A.R.Go.T. was a computer tied to the Metro system. I’d seen mention of her — of it — when I started going through the piles of reports and files on Father’s desk, the first thing I’d cleared after he died. And that access card was a key.

Danse had done as I’d asked. Half the rad-beaver lodge of maps had been neatly piled onto the sofa cushions by the time I came back into the front room of the solar. He started to pick up another armful of maintenance logs, but I interrupted him.

“That’s fine, there’s plenty of room. Grab some of these, will you?” I grinned at him as he relieved me of a double armful of files. “I think you’ve really found something here.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a tunnel linking Adams to — I don’t know where it comes out. But there’s a subway line that’s still operational.” I swigged what was left in my tumbler and started dividing the skyscraper of paper I’d been carrying into smaller buildings. “Help me sort these into categories. We’re looking for anything to do with the Metro.”

Danse added his folders to the categories I’d made and created a few more. There were specs for Project Purity, notes on the G.E.C.K., parts inventories for Liberty Prime, intel on the Enclave, and lists of the equipment we recovered from Adams. A lot of this could stand to be declassified. But in the meantime, I was trusting Father’s intuition about keeping important information close.

I poured another glassful of relaxation — this could be a long night — and started going through the folders connected to Adams.

Next on my own pile was... Fat Man schematics? I wrinkled my nose. Peabody should have these — it looked like some sort of advanced MIRV rail system. A note on the top corner printed in neat, block handwriting read “NG armory”. Lucy’s handwriting, if I was any judge.

“Did you ever hear about the Lone Wanderer, Danse?”

“A little." He was paging through a lap full of documents as we spoke. "Did you know her well?"

“I knew her pretty well by the end.”

Danse looked up at me. “What was she like? It's hard to tell what's true and what's not."

I grabbed my tumbler and took another swig. “She had plenty of names. The Lone Wanderer. Lucy Augustine. The Kid from 101. Here, put this over there on the empty shelf. Keep it separate though. I’ll have a runner take it down to the Lab in the morning.”

Danse went to put the schematics where I’d asked.

Reaching over for another pile of papers, I said, “First time I met her was in GNR plaza. Muties had mounted an attack. Didn’t like Three Dog’s music, I guess. Then this goddamn behemoth just showed up outta nowhere. Usually you can see them coming a klick away, but he was hiding in the ruins. In walks this civilian, right into the middle of a live firefight. Stuck out like a sore thumb in that vault suit.”

Danse leaned forward in his chair, interest lighting his eyes.

I grinned and tilted my head. “You should’ve seen it, Danse. This fucking overgrown pimple had already killed one of ours. He spots Lucy, picks up a motorcycle to throw at her. As cool as you please, she took the Fat Man launcher from that fallen Brother and swung it up to her shoulder. The motorcycle went sailing over her head and the behemoth started to bend over again to pick up something else. Lucy took aim and fired. Shot looked like it was gonna miss and hit the GNR building, but this behemoth had a shopping cart tied to its back. The nuke landed right in that basket. Luckiest shot I’ve ever seen. All of us were brushing off greenskin goo a second after that.”

I shook my head in amazement. “I didn’t find out until later how young she was, scared shitless and looking for her dad. Look what she did for us, though. Project Purity. Raven Rock. Adams. She had giant brass ones and that’s no lie.”

Maybe it was the excitement of telling war stories but I was starting to feel like maybe there should be more going on than file-sorting. It was the way Danse held my gaze. And while his serious brown eyes didn't give me the electric jolt of certain hazel ones, this knight wasn't by any means hard on the eyes. He stood head and sometimes head and shoulders above his fellow recruits. He'd also put on some sculpted mass since joining us. Three squares and PT every day suited Danse just fine.

Which of course brought me around to the problem of asking him. Because what if Danse didn't know about attending? I'd been clueless about it for years. One worst-case scenario had me looking like an idiot trying to explain it. Another had him taking my simple interest as something way more complicated. And even if he already knew, it would be just my luck if he refused. I didn't know Danse like I knew most everyone else at the Citadel. I hadn't grown up with him. Could that be part of what was drawing me?   

Well, getting to know him a little better certainly couldn’t hurt. I reached down to my calf and slipped my combat knife out of its sheath. Old faithful sure looked different from a file folder when placed on top of them.

“This was one of the first weapons I ever owned. Father gave it to me on my sixth birthday.” I rubbed a thumb fondly over the sword and gears etched into the butt. “Tell me about your first. Knife? Gun?”

"Piece of rebar." Danse put up a hand to scratch the slightly longer hair near the crown of his head. At the last moment the gesture became a smoothing motion instead. "At least I think so. My memory isn't very good.”

At my puzzled look, he slogged towards firmer ground. "The first one I really remember was a pipe pistol. That thing," he smiled and shook his head, "was almost better as a bludgeon than as a ranged weapon. Couldn't hit anything over five yards without a lot of luck. But it could scare off anyone who wasn't too serious. Then Cutler showed me how to mod guns and that made life a lot easier."

Cutler? Oh, right, his squadmate. That other knight fumbling with the crate. In some parts of the Capital, modding weapons together was nothing short of a declaration of exclusivity.

“Are you two… connected?”

I instantly regretted those words. What — or who — Danse did really shouldn't be any of my business since it had zero bearing on why we were in here.

Unless I stopped to consider we were in here alone. With a bed in the next room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our Cicero faceclaim](https://www.instagram.com/p/BttWcrqgiYw/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link), shared for the benefit of humanity. :D 


	4. Chapter 4

It was because of that goddamn dream. That and Cross planting the seed and watering it with all this talk about Cicero. It had me trying to figure out if Danse might have any reason to refuse a so-called summons.

I held up a hand. "Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

Danse gave me a half shrug underneath his open and honest face. “A lot of people think we're like that. But we had a business together in Rivet City and Cutler says it's not smart to … well, do other things where you sleep.”

He looked down and smoothed his hair again.

I ducked my own head and pretended to read over the next document on my pile. So Cutler was just a friend. Not even a friend with benefits. And despite all my swearing, Danse still drew the line at saying "shit" in my presence. It was kind of adorable.

Wait, was I actually considering this? I peeked up at Danse.

Brow furrowed in concentration, he was still paging through the folder in his lap, but then, abruptly, he looked at me. “He’s from Arefu.”

“Cutler?”

“He got out before it ‘went to hell’ in his words. Then he spent a year or so with a caravan. It got knocked out by raiders, but Cutler got away and that’s when we met. He said he didn’t know how I’d stayed alive on my own.” 

Flying solo in the wastes wasn't exactly smart. “How long was that?”

“I'm not sure. I remember parts of my childhood, but then there's a long gap in my memory before Cutler and I teamed up. The doctor at Rivet City said he sees it all the time. Just knock the wrong place on your head and that's that.”

“And yet you quote the Codex word for word.” Chin in hand, I regarded him. At least Danse was volunteering more than one sentence at a time. ”Where did you learn to read?”

"Sorry. I don't remember that either.”

Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, as another childhood story came to mind. 

“Anyway, quoting the Codex is nothing. You show Cutler a place just once and he—“

“Danse?” I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair and then clamped down on said arm to stop myself.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why do you keep coming back to Cutler?”

“Because you — because I thought …." That was when he stopped. And went red.

And here I thought I'd been approaching the subject with a delicate hand, when in reality, I was about as discreet as Cross’s super sledge. Maybe I should stick with what I knew.

“Danse?” I said softly. “You thought wrong.”

Standing up let me see how his eyes went to my hips as I smoothed my palms over my contact suit. For the moment, I left things there, both my statement and his telling response. But he looked like a man who needed a drink and, even if nothing else happened, I could offer him that.

I went to retrieve another lowball glass and came back to my chair the long way, around the table, behind the sofa, and through the crates littering the floor. Cross was right — Cicero had been giving off signals so hot my suit’s Geiger counter should’ve picked them up. Others, too, now that I was seeing clearly. Leoni, Marr. Half a dozen more I could easily think of, all circling like radsharks scenting chum in the form of my hormones.

But Danse kept his eyes on his work. He was quiet and dependable. He had a gorgeous ass. More importantly, he was too smart to spin attending me into some story of conquest. He was also too junior. Any hint of disrespect and Krieg would fillet Danse and lay him out in the sun.

The second glass clacked against the table, then the neck of the whiskey bottle clinked against the glass. Silently, I handed him the tumbler. It hadn’t been clear to me before, but it was now. I wanted him to attend me tonight. Not Cutler. Not Cicero. Danse.

I sipped from my glass and sighed in satisfaction as the fire trickled down my throat. 

"Danse. Do you know what attending means?"

“Yes,” he hastened to say. The rapid-fire way it came out made it clearer than Gunny's ringing shouts that if anyone had been unaware of this tradition before Father’s death, they weren’t anymore.

“Then you know you’re allowed to refuse.”

The nod he gave me was still too wary for my liking.

“And whichever way it goes, you can keep working in here. Or if that feels too awkward, I’ll find somebody else."

His hands were wrapped around the glass like it was the last grenade in a tunnel full of fire ants.

"Elder Lyons, I don’t know if ...” he interrupted himself with a bitten lip. “Not because — I mean, if I wasn’t …”

My brow did wrinkle, I had to admit. 

His forehead did too as he tried again. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Seduction isn’t my strong point either.” 

“No, I mean,” his eyes darted away and back, “any of this.”

Sarah-the-Elder knew how to inspire soldiers poised for the charge, but Sarah-the-woman was at a loss. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so different.

“Danse.” He looked up. “Do you want to?”

"Yes," he said. No hesitation this time. 

"Then unless you’d rather step out for the evening, I suggest we make a toast.”

Swift and decisive action had already been drilled into this soldier. He waited maybe a heartbeat before he took his glass and knocked it against the lower half of mine.

“Ad victoriam,” he said.

“Carpe noctem,” I countered with a little smile. He hadn't taken the out. That was good. Yet he was still sitting there, having taken his drink in one shot, obviously nervous and, from the sound of things, not all that experienced.

I set my drink down. Super sledge time.

Approaching him, I reached slowly out and ran my fingers along the side of his cheek. He swallowed again, but tilted his face up to look me in the eye. I said, “Hey.”

It was a relief when he guided me wordlessly onto his lap. His first kiss was too chaste. The next few were warmer and more open-mouthed but his tongue was just making little forays, not real incursions. Plus he was holding me like I was about to shatter. Nope, no good. Danse needed to get out of his head if he was going to be of any use, which meant I needed to pull a Silver Shroud and transform from an Elder into a woman.

Step one involved locking the door to B-Ring. The deadbolt was cool and smooth under my fingers. It slid into place with a quiet click. Step two was the lights.

"Turn on that lamp next to you." Once he did I snapped off the overheads. Unbroken lightbulbs were rare and the warm light they cast made them worth every cap.

Step three was softening. Or the opposite, depending. 

I returned to my Danse-chair. The collar of my contact suit was open. I tended to unbuckle it in the evening, but now I tugged the zipper a few inches lower.

"Don't think I got your first name," I said, sliding my hands up and over his shoulders.

"Tristan," he said in a half-whisper.

"Tristan, I'm Sarah." I leaned in closer. "It's a pleasure."

Sitting on his thighs let me control the force and timing of our kisses when, after a few minutes, he got too eager. But he liked fierce. When I bit his lip and sucked at the spot as if to soothe it, he groaned and started sweeping his hands all over me. And he liked gentle. When I did that thing where my lips were pursed and almost closed, he picked it up, lulling me into a dreamy haze of appreciating how firm his arms were and how the thigh up against him was starting to feel some action. And he really liked direct. Like when I swooped in like some vertibird on a strafing run and plunged my tongue deep inside his mouth.

I couldn’t decide which felt more velvety — the slide of his tongue or the closely shorn hair at the back of his head — so I kept sampling both. I’d make the final call after I’d hooked my legs over his shoulders and felt the suede-like softness of his crew cut between my thighs. In the meantime I guided his hand to the tab of my zipper and shivered in anticipation of what those calloused fingertips would feel like on bare skin.

Soon, the heather grey that everyone wore under their uniforms was the only thing between Danse's fingers and the rest of me. Then came the feel of his cheekbone as he nuzzled me. My breath was already rushing in and out and he hadn’t even thumbed, if I was going to borrow more vertibird slang, my thrust control knobs yet. And accelerating? Shit. I was ready for stall and free-fall the second his warm breath sank through my tank top.

“Help me get out of these sleeves,” I urged, twisting in his lap.

Honestly, I didn’t need the help, but I did want those big hands on me. All over me, kneading my curves under the grey for starters. Just the way he slid his fingers underneath my collar and palmed my shoulder blades as the suit went down my arms had me biting my lip and grinding down.

I needed more of him, yesterday.

I unbuckled his collar and dragged the zipper down. Danse picked up on my urgency and flapped an arm out of one of his sleeves. Even though I didn't have much up top his hands felt great on me. Especially when they started to knead just like I was waiting for. Just in case he had any doubts about how good it felt, I fanned my nails out and dug them into his shoulders. 

But he didn’t undress me. Not completely unexpected given his earlier stalling. But I still had some patience left. 

“Watch me.”

When I took my top off and reached up to undo my ponytail, it was like I could see his eyes darken. It didn’t seem possible to feel so powerful outside of my T-45, but there I was. Invincible.

A quick shake sent my hair tumbling around my shoulders. I scooped it up into a loose bundle on top of my head and arched. Bared my neck. Ran fingertips up and down the side of it. A longer drag of nails down my breastbone made goosebumps rise in patches. I traced the ridges and hollows of my collarbone, then paused.

“Still paying attention?”

The way hands tightened on my hips said yes ma'am.

The palm that was lying over my heart curved between, around, in, and up. Kneading, plucking, plumping. Offering.

His hot mouth took me by surprise. My gasp became a liquid moan on the exhale and I cradled his head as he went to town. Rougher than I was expecting, but the eager way he rearranged my knees to either side of him made me forget all about that. Actually that wasn't it. It was the hot ridge of his lust pressed into the hot valley of mine that made everything else fly out of my head.

He did slow down after awhile. Popped off my now-wet nipples and began to copy as much as he could remember of the ways I'd been touching myself. Like when he started kissing my neck. It got me grinding down onto him. Even made him bold enough to hold my ass in his big hands and jerk us against each other.

“Again,” I breathed.

A tighter grasp and a stronger nudge forced the center seam of my uniform to shift a glorious centimeter to the left. I surged against him, wanting more.

“The couch,” I said. With hands around my thighs, he stood up to carry me over there. Paper still took up the other half so there was no room for us to spread out, only to put me on my back. He got the other sleeve of his uniform off and mine down to my knees before he remembered the boots — rookie move — but made up for it when he lifted my bound ankles up in the air to one side. I felt him working the slippery head of his cock up against me. 

I wanted him balls deep. But, ow, not — “Easy,” I hissed. It had been way too fucking long. Or he was too big. Or both. With my closed legs in the way, I couldn't really see.

He paused and closed his eyes, half leaning on my thighs and no doubt thinking whatever men thought about when they didn’t want to literally blow their chances. He looked beautiful, all pent up and practically shaking. For a second I imagined him underneath me wearing that expression and a bolt of pleasure shot up out of my clit, lighting up my insides. 

“Okay, I’m good,” I squeezed the arm that wasn’t wrapped around my legs. “But take it slow.”

The way he started was kind of bumpy so I started touching myself. Then I tried picking up the pace, but it wasn’t like I could get much leverage until, all of a sudden he maybe sensed my need and started pistoning deep and hard and exactly like I imagined he could. And yesss. Here we —

Except then he stiffened. Twitched. Hiked those bushy eyebrows up in the middle and —

What?

Are you fucking kidding me?

I’d been right there. Right the fuck there, up to the point he started rutting like a… hell, I couldn’t think of anything insulting enough. A mole rat, maybe, although that would make me something worse.

By the time he’d finished, I’d already thought of a dozen brutal takedowns. The dreamy, satisfied smile on his face melted into confusion and then shock when he finally opened his eyes, but I was past caring.

“Up.” I shoved at his chest. “I need another drink after that.”

I hauled my suit and underwear up like I was ten minutes late for morning drills and then strode across the room like I was leading them, still topless, but I didn’t give a mole rat’s ass. 

What in the fried fuck? I should just finish myself off on top of the table, make him watch, then kick him out forever. Seething, I tied the arms of my suit around my hips. Just let him try to eyeball anything south of my chin. I’d have his head on a pike in the bailey.

“Eyes on me,” I snapped. Oh yeah. He knew he’d fucked up — those lids squeezed together before he obeyed. A minuscule part of me began to almost feel sorry for his unenviable position. Almost.

“Did you feel anything happen down here?” I pointed both forefingers directly at the neglected area in question. “Let me supply the answer for you. No, you fucking didn’t.”

A look of supreme horror dawned on his face. “But women …” he trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. Or question, if that’s what it was supposed to be.

“Women what? I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.” I bit each word off like a hunk of stale bread.

Was Danse really that naïve? Looking like he did and packing ordnance like that? I eyed him suspiciously. He looked like a whipped dog sitting there with his tail and other parts tucked between his legs.

Shit. I'd heard stories about wastelanders who didn't know what they were doing. I'd thought they were all exaggerations. 

“Look. We don’t —“ I made a rolling gesture with my hand “— unless…” Shit. This was awkward as hell. 

To give myself a moment to think my way through this minefield of a conversation, I snatched up the bottle again and took a gulp that burned all the way down. Didn’t think I’d end up giving my first attendee a how-to.

“It takes time,” I said at last.

But his face stayed blank. Zero comprehension. And, dammit, I’d been so close. If he’d kept up the same pace until I was ready, the crescent marks from my nails might still be embedded in his ass.

Bottle in hand, I walked back over to the couch, coming to a halt directly in front of him. Danse’s head had drooped back down, so I kicked his foot to gain his full attention.

I handed him the bottle.

He took a swig, grimaced, and then took another. I left him to it while I found my tank top and put it back on. His had never come off so we were equally dressed at least. 

“Look, just answer me this. Do you mostly sleep with men?”

“What?” he asked, now genuinely alarmed.

I waved his concern away. "Do what you want on your own time. But you said ‘women don’t’. Meaning ‘men do’. So how many women have you been with?" 

That was when my earnest, boneheaded knight actually looked up at the ceiling and started tallying things up in his head. I swore I could hear him paging through whichever memories were still intact.

“Two,” he said. “Initiate —“

“No names,” I interrupted. Tap-dancing Christ, I wasn’t that new medic taking his history. Then I thought two? At this point in his life? Then something else hit me.

Back when I was a knight, one of our wasteland recruits became insanely popular once word got around she was less selective than her notoriously picky sisters. I still remember her offhand shrug the day a bunch of us called her out. “We're all clean, we're all safe. What's the problem?"

I’d never thought much about the semiannual shots that kept sisters in the field until they were ready. But without them and other basic medical care, Danse had been subject to the same harsh rules as every other wastelander. Same-sex was just easier. And maybe self-reinforcing. One slip-up and word got around. Every woman in your tiny settlement might avoid you for good.

Or every sister at the Citadel.

“Danse,” I said, coming back to our tension and silence and old-book smells. “I’ve been an ass, I’m sorry. None of this was your fault."

I waited, but got nothing but a knight sitting very still with whatever he was feeling.

“Look, you're not tied to these books. If you don’t report back here tomorrow, I’ll get somebody else. Now,” I stood up, feeling about half as tall as I’d been at the beginning of the night, which was pretty damn short indeed. “Do you want to say anything?”

Danse’s mouth worked. “No,” he said at last.

“Then I’ll excuse myself. Take as long as you need out here. Have another drink if it helps. But I’m turning in. Good night.”

“Good night, Elder Lyons.”

It wasn’t a good night. I’d frag-grenaded both of us with this parody of seduction. Still, I approached my living space with a straight back and closed the door softly, leaning wearily against the other side, even though my insides still thrummed like a bowstring. Not like Danse was allowed to see that though. Appearances had to be maintained.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, Knight sergeants command their squads. Knight captains command several squads and report to the paladin who oversees the company and gives it its name. For example, Krieg-kappa and Krieg-iota (each with its own knight sergeant) are part of Krieg's company. 
> 
> Also there are a lot of names in this chapter. Here's a mini dramatis personae: 
> 
> Paladin Gunny - Senior Drill Instructor  
> Paladin Valdez - member of the Citadel's more traditional faction  
> Paladin Vargas - Leader of Lyons' Pride elite squad  
> Knight Captain Artemis - a loyal brother, backbone of field operations for years  
> Knight Sergeant Senna - leads Valdez-psi squad.  
> Scribe Vallincourt - Head Scribe Rothchild's assistant  
> Scribe Jameson - Head Archivist  
> Scribe Bowditch - Proctor of the Order of the Shield  
> Lucy Augustine - The Lone Wanderer, The Kid From 101

"No," I said for what seemed like the twentieth time, "from your chest, like I showed you."

"It sounds weird," Arthur Maxson complained from one of the small rugs scattered around the solar. Standing on them was slightly more comfortable than being boots-on-the-floor the entire time.

I put my pen down and knuckled the temple that hurt the most. "It won't after your voice is done changing. In the meantime, you need to start learning to use your diaphragm."

"Why can't I just read it?”

Squire Maxson was growing -- and not just in stature. He never would have questioned me like this a year ago. It was a good thing Danse was the only other person in here, or I would’ve been forced to reprimand the boy.

"Because you'll be a knight soon. And when you address anyone of lower rank, reading orders _won't be enough_." With slowing cadence I demonstrated the importance of my words, implying dire consequences for squires who disobeyed them.

Said squire looked hastily down at the slim, grey book in his hands. "'The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon --'"

“No,” I snapped. Could he sound any flatter? When Arthur's lessons were going smoothly, it was easy to concentrate on the Metro maps. But I wasn't about to accept anything less than perfection from the one squire lucky enough to get this much of my time.

"What's wrong?" his voice cracked and he reddened a little.

The reminder of how young he still was gave me space to take a breath. "Make it sound like you're speaking to an actual person. Like you're trying to convince them."

But he only stared at me, clearly baffled as well as closed off in some other way I couldn't put my finger on. What was with Maxson these days?  

Danse tried to make himself inconspicuous during these lessons, carrying on his sorting and cataloguing without a look or a word. He owed me nothing after my Cram-fisted attempt at love-games, but I wasn’t going to let the right tool lie around unused.  

"Knight, do me a favor.” I plucked the book from Arthur's grip and held it out. “Read this passage to yourself until you get the sense of it."

There was something odd about Danse and reading. Sometimes he’d stumble over commonplace words. Then, after a few seconds, he’d get the sounds, the meanings, everything. As if his brain was like a terminal winding through a holotape until it got to the right part.

"I'm ready," he said after a couple of minutes.

“Come stand over here. Maxson, I want your hand at the bottom of Danse's ribcage. Right where you stab to -- that's right." Both man and boy looked uncomfortable, but I didn't care. "Danse, read the first sentence like you’re quoting the Codex.”

His eyes flicked up, but when he saw there was no malice in mine he said, "'The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.'"

It was a little victory to see Arthur's expression go from a grudging kind of mistrust to wonder.

"Good. Read the next part like you would to a friend who wasn't feeling well."

"’Therefore, the good fighter will be terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision,'" Danse said, soft and low. His rolling cadence plucked a string deep down in my guts, reminding me that spending quality time with myself was another task I'd been neglecting.

“And the next one as if you were trying to reach everyone in the mess hall." I met his surprised look. "Don't hold back."

"’Energy may be likened to the bending of a crossbow; decision, to the releasing of a trigger,’" he boomed and Arthur jumped. Even I wasn't completely prepared for the force of it. Me or my poor temples.

"Thank you, Knight," I said, rattling a finger around in my ear. “As you were.”

"Now did you feel --" Arthur, for some reason, was still watching Danse. "Eyes front, Squire. Did you feel the difference in how he breathed and how his chest muscles worked?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Do you know why it's important to master your voice that way?"

There was a tense silence, during which my head throbbed a few more times.

"No ma'am."

"Because delivery — how you speak — matters just as much as what you say, if not more. Knight Danse has two advantages over you. One is a bigger voicebox. The other is he already knows how to speak so people will listen — one reason he won't be a knight for long. Now you are going to find somewhere private and practice those three voices with whatever is lying around. _Guns and Bullets_ , _The Unstoppables_ , I don't care. Are we clear?"

Maxson finally smartened up and snapped to attention. "Yes, Elder Lyons."

"All right. Dismissed."

He handed me the little book and then strode to the door with so much purpose he practically ran into Abigail, who was just then coming in.

Cross paused to acknowledge Maxson with a brisk nod and a “Squire.” Any reservations she had about the boy were for my ears only.  

He returned the greeting with grave politeness, but Cross was already halfway across the room. I could tell by the guarded expression on her face that whatever brought her here wasn’t good. My hours-long headache spiked, not to mention my blood pressure.

She stopped in front of me and touched her fist to her heart. “Elder Lyons.”

I pushed to my feet. “Star Paladin.”

She jerked her thumb at Danse’s back and her head at the door. Prickles of unease tingled along my spine.

Tucking my hands behind me I said, “Knight, would you give us a moment?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He advanced on soft feet. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, Cross issued her own instruction: “Find Knight Captain Gallows, soldier. Tell him the Elder needs the latest recon maps and a corkboard large enough to hold them.”

“Ma’am,” Danse snapped off a salute and left.

“Spill it,” I said wearily.

Abigail clenched her jaw and shook her head. “Knight Captain Artemis just reported that Valdez-psi squad dispatched to the waste disposal site near Fort Bannister has missed its last two check-ins.”

“Son of a— All right, get a bird in the air for a sweep. Is that Senna's command?"

"Affirmative. And a bird's already up,” she confirmed. “Not sure how much they’ll see in the dark, but we can hope.”

There went any chance of sleep for the night. There was no way I could shut my eyes with an entire squad unaccounted for.

“Have a seat,” I said. At her look I amended, “Just move that stack of logbooks.”

Metro maps and associated debris had taken over. Paper covered so much of the room, it was like a spring blizzard had found its way in here. While Cross made a space to sit, I pawed uselessly at the rigor vivis straining the back of my neck. Neglecting PT to get work done was having unexpected effects.  

“Rothchild's going to take this personally,” I grumbled. Complaints like this were unbecoming of my rank, but I was too tired and stressed out to care. “He’s been riding my ass for months to get some salvage done out there.”

Abigail waved dismissively. “He takes everything personally these days. Which reminds me, Vallincourt was asking if we’d been thinking about appointing a successor.”

“Jameson’s more capable,” I countered.

Cross shook her head. “Making your Chief Archivist your Head Scribe is too many shells in one mortar. Remember all that data loss down in Texas?”

I winced. “Damn, I forgot.”

“I’m not surprised,” Cross answered with her trademark sass. “That’s ancient history for squires like you and Maxson.”

“Can’t help that neither of us are fossilized.” I tossed this her way mainly out of habit, though a corner of my mouth creaked up anyway.

“Speaking of Maxsons, how is ours dealing with a knight vying for his lady’s affections?”

Abigail's dry observation kicked me in the shins. Not because she was wrong, just that I’d failed to see it. Every instance of squire-related stroppiness could be traced back to the first time Danse had been in here during his lessons. Arthur trusted me, but he was probably feeling self-conscious as hell in front of this larger audience.

"It'll work itself out," I said, still trying to work out the devilish kinks in my neck by twisting this way and that. “What about Bowditch to succeed Rothchild?”

Cross’s lips were pursed. “A good choice. But Vallincourt will challenge. She’s already installed herself as Reginald’s shadow.”

“I noticed,” I said with a frown. “Vallincourt’s so tech-obsessed I don’t know why she didn’t pack up and join the Outcasts.”

“We have yao guai rib nights,” Cross said with a gleam in her eye.  

It was a good joke, but it bounced harmlessly off the armor of my melancholy. “I hate watching Reginald slip like this.”

“We all do. But Vallincourt as Head Scribe will be more trouble than it's worth.”

“You’re right.” I said and tried to tease out the possibilities, but my mind kept straying back to Senna's squad. Nine brothers and sisters. They were probably fine. The problem could be simple as signal interference from a solar flare. “Here’s an idea. What if we approve a couple of Vallincourt’s research ideas and promise her some of those initiates on the scribe track?”

“That’s a start. And if we have Rothchild’s staff start copying Bowditch on all of their reports, it will prevent slip-ups and ease the transition. Then give Bowditch a couple of scribes from Adams. That’ll give his current staff some leeway while he takes on more work”

Now a genuine smile bloomed on my face. “Do you have any idea what I’d do if you weren’t around?”

“Probably get yourself killed in some foolheaded way,” Abigail said, her affection well hidden. “Or die of a heart attack at the age of twenty-seven.”

“I'm fine,” I said.

Abigail’s cough may or may not have covered up the word “bullshit”. In any case she had her disagreeing-without-moving-a-muscle face on, which said the same thing.

“Look. Once we get our supply lines back up,” I held my thumb out. My index finger enlisted next. “And stop crashing vertibirds...”

“Except you've been making mistakes. Like forgetting Texas just now. And letting yourself get this tense." She dug a finger into my shoulder. It hurt a lot more than it should have. "You need to let yourself ask for help, in whatever form it might take.“

 _This again?_ It took just a split second to start seeing red. “I don’t have time! Don't you get it? I just don’t have —”

“Then you make time,” she soothed, reminding me that snapping at subordinates was an error Sentinel Sarah rarely, if ever, used to make. “When that knight comes back, have him do some physio at the very least.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I hate it when you’re right,” I muttered.

A more immediate problem manifested when Danse arrived back with the corkboard. There was no place for it to go. Even the couch was now occupied.

“Here.” I advanced to the other end of the solar and turned two file-laden armchairs to face each other. Those stacks of paper would keep the board from slipping. As Danse set it up, Cross broke the security seal on the packet of new maps of Zone 4, the irradiated plains west of the DC Metro. We pinned them up and began to review the area. I sent Danse off to the mess for a pot of coffee.

The waste disposal site was north of Fort Bannister and nearly due east of the cavern system reportedly inhabited by that pack of self-governing children. Bile green hatchmarks indicated high-rad areas. Frowning, I leaned in. A dashed line connected the caverns to the hot spot on the eastern border of the map. A cog symbol and the number 87 lay smack dab in the middle.

“Cross, something’s bugging me. Wasn’t there something about Vault 87?”   

“That’s where 101 found the G.E.C.K. for Project Purity.”

I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Shit. I can’t believe I forgot.”

The explosion at the Memorial and the coma had scrambled my brain, but more was coming back to me now. Lucy had brought back a sample of Eden’s FEV after she’d escaped Raven Rock. The dose had been meant to taint the waters of the Potomac.

“87 was a mutant hive. They had vats of FEV down there.” I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat.

“We can’t jump to conclusions.”

But it was clear what had happened to our squad. The humane thing to do would be to dispatch an extermination team to handle both the mutie presence, and what was left of our people. I could only hope they’d been killed and eaten — in that order — and not turned into mutants themselves.

“Cross, tell Vargas to get a mix of Pride and heavy infantry ready to cleanse 87 first thing in the morning. He’s welcome to take those Hellfire troopers if he thinks they’d be useful.”

“Copy,” Cross said at once. Despite her words, she probably had the same gut feeling I did.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement next to me and flinched. My hand automatically reached for the gun that wasn’t there anymore, not on a regular basis. Danse took a sudden step back. Coffee sloshed out of the mug he’d been carrying.

“Sorry,” I said gruffly and blew out a hard breath to settle the unexpected spike of adrenaline. When was I going to stop having to apologize to this man?

Catastrophe averted, Cross acknowledged me and took her leave.

Danse came back with a rag and mopped up the spill. Trying to think of what should hold my attention next, I just stood there and watched him work. Watched the curve of his -- ohhh no.

I about-faced to evade the trap I’d nearly jumped into a second time. Whatever privations Danse had endured in the wasteland, I had no time and even less desire to teach sex-ed. Getting off was my priority. Maybe even with someone to help. What had Cross been saying about Cicero and bedframes?

“Danse, take the rest of the night off. You’ve earned it.” I headed back to where a new whiskey bottle had been posted to the sideboard. I’d sit with a double shot and think about how to go about getting someone else in here without putting the whole Citadel on high alert. Just because it was tradition didn’t mean I wanted everyone winking and elbowing each other the next day.

But when I didn’t hear Danse leaving, I turned around with the bottle still in hand. He’d gotten to his feet and even paced forward, but he was standing there, hesitating.

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

Warmth flooded me. My head knew people cared. From grizzled veterans to radapple-cheeked squires, so many at the Citadel supported me. But to feel the evidence of it was humbling.

“It’s all right, soldier, I’ll just be working late.”

That was when he paused and the awkwardness slid back in.

“Elder Lyons. I don’t know if …”  He went red again and I’m sorry to say even that didn’t clue me in. “Could I have another chance?”

Utter silence had descended on the solar. Probably a good ten seconds of thunderstruck-ness passed by. I figured out how big my eyes must have gotten when he squeezed his shut.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’ll just see myself out.”

That was what I wanted, right? To unattend myself from Danse, if that was even a word? I needed get off and get back to work and that required someone who was Hellfire in the sheets, not the closest equivalent to a virgin in the whole fucking Citadel. The whole _fucking_ Citadel. With our secure walls and our meds, the Brotherhood had kind of a reputation.

 _You are a stone-cold idiot_ , I told myself as I put the bottle down.

“Danse, hold on.”

He’d almost made it to the door. He stopped dead in his tracks and bowed his head, as if I was about to heap more scorn on him.

As gently as I possibly could, I said, “You don’t have to prove anything.”

Danse's stiff back got even stiffer. Shit. I'd only made it worse.

“You know what Gunny always says, ma’am. ‘If at first you don’t succeed —‘“

I winced. Fucking Gunny. He always ended that phrase with ‘then maybe you just suck.’ "Goddamn it, will you look at me?”

He was reluctant, but right now my question was still an order. I eased forward, half step at a time, then paused an arm's length away from him. One more step brought me close enough to feel the heat from Danse’s body. It meant he could feel mine as well. I tipped my chin up to look at him; he returned my gaze with eyes that were were wary. A flush still rode high on his face.

“Permission granted. If —” I poked him in the chest “— you let me show you a few things. Deal?”

He nodded solemnly because anything else wouldn’t be Danse.

“Good. Then come here and kiss me.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

He brushed his lips over mine and opened them for more kisses. Even so, it wasn’t comfortable. I only came up to the broadest reach of his chest. Plus his arms and torso felt stiff as a sentrybot. Really, the only bendable-looking part of Danse was his bottom lip. So I reached up and traced my thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes became soft, liquid. That was a good start. I’d unthaw this soldier one body part at at time.

Sweeping that same thumb over his bottom lip, I said, “Try this on me.”  

I gave him a hint of tongue when he did. My teeth grazed him on the second pass. By the third, I drew him into my mouth and Danse was instantly, completely galvanized. I felt it happen. The answering wash of heat between my own legs came as I tipped my head back to watch him, my  teeth behind his first knuckle. Holding his wrist in place I slowly withdrew, watching the whole time. Was he paying attention?

Then without any more delay, parted my lips and plunged down to the base of his thumb, loving how he gasped. I did it again, slower, with a tongue-swirl while keeping our gazes locked. An added hum let him feel more of what I could do. It made him press more insistently against my belly.

Right then it dawned on me that Danse had a lot of potential. Half the guys I’d slept with wouldn’t think what I’d just done was anything special. Could his inexperience be a good thing?

I honestly wanted to keep at his thumb just to see how far I could take it. But wouldn’t do much for me, other than get me wetter than the Potomac. The final plunge of my mouth ended with a nip that made his hips surge against me.

Rising up, I eased him down for one more kiss.

Taking his hand, I led my unresisting knight through the solar’s inner door and, once it was shut, positioned him against the back of it. On tiptoe, I had just enough height to nuzzle the hinge of his jaw and twine my arms around his neck. The next time I tugged his head down and nipped his bottom lip sharply enough to make him grunt.

Maybe I could ease up. Feather the tip of my tongue against his, coaxing and sweet. When he responded in kind I surged up and lapped like a wavelet. Just a little deeper each time until we went from give and take to seize and conquer. Hot, open-mouthed, and absolutely thorough.

I buried my face against his chest for a second to steady my knees. Then I and pushed off towards the shadowy bed where I sat and started unlacing my boots. One and then two thumped to the floor, followed by socks flung any which way. Danse couldn’t take his eyes off me any more than filings could avoid a magnet, especially when I opened my contact suit, pulling until I ran out of zipper at my belly. It gave him a long slice of bare skin to stare at. All day I’d been pissed about some idiot on laundry leaving me without a clean undershirt. But this little moment made up for everything.    

Danse flicked a glance back up at my face, and opened his mouth. But it snapped shut just as quickly. I arched a brow at him. “Cat got your tongue? It was working a few seconds ago.”

Once the uniform was off my shoulders, it fell in a puddle at my feet. I peeled down my undershorts and climbed up onto the bed. Lifting my brows in a “here we are” gesture, I said, “Your turn.”

With pretty much no self-consciousness, he shucked everything like it was thirty seconds to lights out. Okay, we’d have to work on that. Maybe use the radio. Have him undress to Easy Living, or Anything Goes.  I had to stop Danse in the act of folding his damn uniform with an “over here” jerk of my chin. That got him moving. Sure was a nice view as he climbed into bed, sculpted and gorgeously erect. He was cut, I noticed. Something I’d seen only twice before in my life.

Danse was staring at me with just as narrow a focus and I had to say that was pretty nice. All of it was, to be honest. Privacy. One lamp on near the door. A hard-bodied man in my bed who very much wanted to be there.

“Sit up here.” I tapped the headboard and leaned away from it so he’d fit himself in behind me.

When I put my back against Danse’s chest, the warmth was like coming in through the Citadel’s gates on a windy day. For a moment I just luxuriated the feel of his arms around me. Before long I did reach up and stroke those velvety hairs at the sides of his head that had charmed me so much last time.

“Comfortable?” I asked.

He nodded yes and brushed his lips against my temple. He did it again when I hummed encouragement. My fingers slid up into the longer hair on top of his head and scraped gentle circles. His body still felt tense, but now more anticipation than awkwardness now.

“Let’s do it this way,” I threaded my fingers through his. “You’ll be my power armor. I’ll rely on you, but stay in control.”

“Am I a base model?” I caught just a hint of amusement in his voice.

Holding our arms comfortably out in front of us at chest level with elbows bent, I said, “That’s right, no mods at all. You need calibrating, too.”

Slowly I brought our hands down. Instead of touching myself like maybe he’d hoped, I began to sweep our fingertips along his defined quads. They jumped a little.

“What are your sensors telling you?” I asked playfully.

“That my legs aren’t as nice as yours,” he said without hesitation.

Enjoyment rising, I said, “Smartass.”

I bent my knees and he copied the motion. Then I guided his touch to the inner set of thighs and from there up my belly, breastbone and neck. I took us into my hair and tightened, humming tho show him how a little tug could make pleasure burst out of the roots like the cascade of ions in an air shower.

“When things really get going, you can do that a little harder. It’ll still register as pleasure.”

A tell against my backbone told me Danse was on board with that.

Dragging the backs of his nails lightly along my neck was another lesson followed by some very important sweeps of the abdominal sector. “Too far to the sides and it tickles. Here is okay. Oh, wait a minute. We need a systems check”

Here I curled my hands around his biceps to squeeze and stroke. “All systems nominal. Or maybe phenomenal.” My cheek was up near his and I felt him smile. “

Except it feels like someone left a wrench in this suit. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The wrench twitched. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“See that it happens again.” I planted a soft kiss against his jaw. “Ready for some  biofeedback?”

“Affirmative.”

I placed our hands on my belly and guided them off center to where sleek muscle was hidden under the skin. Slipping my hands out and then covering his I said, “Tell me what you feel.”

He measured and prodded, an inch at a time. Muscles and tendons flexed under mine as he he took his time exploring me. It was sweet and sexy at the same time.

“You feel firm here. Toned,” he said after his touches had gone from almost impersonal to a caress that had me pressing muy lips together.  

“And this?” I guided his hand along my ribs even though that was near the ticklish quadrants.

The answer was quicker this time. “Bumpy.” Danse took control for a second, gliding his middle finger up my breastbone: “Here you feel silky. And here,” as he skimmed up to the wings of my collarbone.

His initiative was rewarded with a slow grind of my ass that pulled a stuttering breath from him. “Very nice, Tristan. Where to next?”

Zero hesitation now. “Here.” The built-in calipers of his palms formed perfect cups.

“Soft. Warm,” he breathed. “Smells amazing.”

“Your hands can’t smell,” I murmured as my eyes closed and I luxuriated in how he was holding me.  

He answered with bone-melting honesty. “I remember, though.”

When he rolled both nipples between his fingers I arched up into the touch.

“These are hard.”

“That’s supposed to be my line,” I half-protested, squirming like a kitten. For good measure, I dug my claws into the outsides of his thighs.

But while this felt wonderful, I had more teaching to do. So I made Danse’s hands back into gauntlets and guided the right one down to where it would do the most good.

“How about here?” I murmured, sucking a breath in through my nose as he made contact.

“Slippery,” he breathed, his chin down near my ear, “ …. hot.”

I hummed agreement as he quested all around the little ridges and valleys, mapping the topography. I spread myself wider so he could really get a feel for the lay of the land, so to speak.

“What feels good?” he asked. I’d been drifting, happy to let Danse play, but he’d reminded me I was in the hands of a fairly task-oriented knight.

“If you press in … like this.” I pulled his wrist up until his biggest set of knuckles hinged at my pubic bone. “And press in. And just hold me …”

I groaned as his three middle fingers spread out over sealed lips. That only got louder when I started to rock his hand deliberately back and forth.

“That’s good,” I said, and swallowed. It was getting harder to think. “Now push your middle finger … nhh, feel that?”

“Yeah.” His voice was starting to get a really nice burr to it.

“Fusion core housing. Very delicate.”

I felt him chuckle, but I sure as hell wasn’t laughing when he strung last two lessons together. The tip of his middle finger, at the entrance to my core chamber, gave an experimental swirl. Then he started to rock his hand. One long, soft moan later, my hips started to slow dance . Each time he rocked, he slid just a fraction deeper inside until he was buried up to the first knuckle.

That inch of thick finger was good. Better than good. When I shuddered and lost the rhythm for a second, he picked up the slack and added an extra little plunge that made my head nod like a hubflower on its stem. The teasing way he was gliding, along with the on/off pressure of his knuckle joint, meant it wouldn’t take long before the pleasure ramped up to critical levels. So I stopped him.

“You okay?” He sounded confused.

“No,” I laughed breathlessly. “You’re a little too good, matter of fact.”

Wriggling against him to reposition myself, I slung one leg over his, then the other for support. A little tricky to do while keeping his hand in place, but I managed. It opened me up even more, and he immediately started to reivew the difference. His cock strained against my back and he groaned when I stopped him again.

“Hold on.” My voice was shaky. I had to take a breath. “We need to go over some advanced core insertion techniques.”

I paired my middle and ring fingers together over his and paused.

“Paying attention, soldier?”

His voice was deliciously rough. “Roger that.”

He sucked in a breath as I eased us inside.

“Three and three, or even three and two ” I began — by then I had to really work to keep words coming, “would be too much. But like this…”

I wondered for a second why I’d never broken any of this down for a lover. Was it because, despite fighting alongside us for nearly 200 years, brothers still thought they knew better? Or was it because of how the wasteland hardened all of us? Made us afraid to take pleasure in more than quick snatches.

Danse curled his fingers into me and my eyes fluttered closed. Philosophizing right now was like writing poems in a radstorm. There were more immediate concerns.

Still controlling him, I slowly plunged our tool in and carefully back out. I felt lusciously stretched. A callus at the base of his middle finger was in such a good spot that I ground up into it, biting my lip and canting the bowl of my hips to get the best angle.

It wasn't enough, though. Holding his wrist still again, I disengaged and then slipped my fingers underneath his so I could do that familiar slide-and-glide along both sides of my clit.

"Feel and watch," I said, before really starting in.

This wasn’t going to take long, not with him still inside me. Not with my clit sending those swoopy, vertibird-in-turbulence through my belly. I firmed up my touch and started rolling and circling my two middle fingers. Then my mouth fell open in a soundless, breathless cry when he started copying the motions inside of me. Tiny circles. Larger ones. Firm pressure, then soft as down, only his fingers were longer and thicker and—

He was saying something, muffled by the side of my head where his lips were pressed into my hair. It sounded encouraging. One word in a rough whisper — “beautiful” — floated past me as I started come unraveled. I relaxed into it and released, letting the feeling roar through my twat, tits, taint, and toes. Even teeth, maybe.

Hell to the fucking yes!

"So that's what you’ve been missing,” I said later, once I’d drifted back and started massaging the back of his neck with my off-duty hand. I flipped over so he could take in my satisfied expression and remember what it looked like.

Cool air hit the wet spot he’d made on my lower back. As if the one a little south of my heart wasn’t obvious enough.

“Feel the difference?” I smiled up at him.

“Saw it, felt it …” he lifted me and I cooperated, creeping up until we were close enough to kiss again and he became a very noticeable presence between my legs. So tempting. All I had to do was kneel up, align him, and the next round would start.

The temptation got worse Danse kissed me again, slow and sweet, with plenty of attention to everything I’d shown him. He was a quick study.

Here I picked myself up and slid down next to him, outside the curve of his arm, propped up on one of mine. I walked my fingers teasingly up his thigh. Stroked the backs of them along that enticing cleft between hipbone and groin. Most men didn’t have it. Only a combination of genes and hard work marked a lucky few in this way. Above and between this v-shape his flushed and inviting cock reared proudly,

“Ready for another lesson?” I asked, locked onto his expectant face so I could ignore his even more expectant body. I wanted him inside me. Was I doing the right thing here?  

Yes. This lesson — the why as opposed to the how — was important. He’d thought too much of himself the first time, and that was unacceptable in any man, let alone someone who was going to be attending me.

I cupped his chin in my hand and looked deeply into his eyes. “Then finish yourself off. Like I had to the other night. Ready?”

He stared blankly, unable to believe I was serious. He was right there. His cock was right there.

“Sarah?”

My robe was on a hook just inside the wardrobe to the left of my bed. I put it on, and then rejoined Danse, tenderly brushing his lips with mine on the way back down. “It’s also my lesson. On how you like to be touched. On my mark,” I whispered.

With clothes and a deliberate choice of words I’d gone to being a lover to more of an authority figure. And I knew Danse wasn’t so far above himself, even with what we’d just done, that he’d disobey the Elder herself.

All he could do was slide down, his erection bobbing with firm insistence, and take himself securely in hand. He swallowed, gave himself a few strokes, and opened his eyes to check that there really was only one way out of this and that was through. Then slammed his eyes shut again in a stirring little out-of-sight, out-of-mind moment.

“How do you —” he cleared his throat. “How should I do it?”

“Depends,” I whispered, leaning down, “on how you want me to do it next time.”

That in itself nearly did Tristan in, at least judging by how he clamped down on himself.  

“Fast and rough?” I let a my voice shift into a growl and then almost a purr. “Or slow. Teasing.” 

It was nearly a full minute before Danse released the stranglehold he had on his cock. The way his chest inflated with a huge breath made me wonder if he’d been breathing or not during that time. Not like I was paying attention to anything other than his hand and what was in it.

Then he choked out, “Both.” Squeezed tight again, then gave himself a quick stroke, followed by two slow ones. The hand that had been clutching sheets reached up to cup and massage his balls.

This. This was hot as fuck. Especially when Danse started pumping his hand in earnest with a tempo that was neither fast nor slow. Just steady. An even pace, capped with a clenched jaw and tightly shut eyes. It was beautiful, and I understood the message he was giving me in this exquisite demonstration: he was capable of control.

When the inevitable happened, I whispered praises as Danse shuddered and spilled over his his clenched abs and fist. As he opened his eyes back up and rolled them my way, all I did was smile and retrieve a cloth I kept tucked away. I dabbed at the higher splashes, then let him to finish the rest.

By the time Danse, decent again, backed out the door and silently closed it, I was starting to wonder if I might get some sleep after all.

  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

A soft rap on the door came, as expected, at 0350. I was awake and dressed, my hair back in its ponytail, my guts back to churning with anxiety over Valdez-psi. A few steps took me to the solar’s outer door, which I swung open, nodding a greeting to Cross. As we stepped into B ring, she fell in at my right shoulder.

“Get any sleep?”

“Some,” I replied noncommittally. “What's happening at Fort Bannister?”

“Artemis is holding steady and has no new intel. Vorpal and Joyeuse will trade off hourly sweeps beginning at sunrise. You took my advice, I hope.”

I stopped with my hand on the door to A Ring and looked at Abigail, my eyebrow hiked up to somewhere serious. “You can quit fishing for details.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said as we strode on.

I shook my head. “Honestly, Cross, this is life or death here.”

“We can't be life or death every second of our lives,” she said, with no special oomph or conviction. "And don’t be so uptight. It’s normal for the rest of us to wonder what you’re up to, just as it’s normal for you to enjoy all the perquisites of your rank. I may be old, I still remember what it felt like when the blood ran hot.”

Pushing open the heavy door that led to the bailey, I glanced over my shoulder at Cross. “You don’t have blood anymore, you have coolant.”

She let out a bark of laughter as we emerged into the still-wintry chill of the predawn air. In deference to the early hour, the floodlights ringing the bailey had been switched on. Senior Paladin Vargas had his alpha squad assembled. Alongside them were Cicero and his team, all in their finely calibrated Hellfire armor.

Vargas, Pride leader now that I’d advanced, nodded respectfully. “Elder Lyons. An honor to have you here.”

I returned the nod, my eyes on everyone and their gear. I swiveled my index finger at my friend and brother for as long as I could remember. “Turn around. I’ll check your six.”

He put his back to me. I ran deft fingers along the coolant lines and visible section of the fusion core before thumping the back of him. “Looks good.”

It had better. I’d have his guts for garters — any of them — if their equipment was in less than perfect condition prior to heading out. Stepping back, I clasped my hands behind my leather jacket and widened my stance. Cross called it my “Elder pose”. Every suit of power armor straightened almost imperceptibly at the signal.

Icy wind whipped a few strands of my hair free. I tipped my chin into the breeze and surveyed them all calmly. “You all know what your mission is. Find our people. Euthanize anything else you come across.”

One of the hardest things a brother or sister could ever have to do was put down an abomination that still bore traces of what it had resembled in life. It was why I was here this morning. It was why I filled my voice with every ounce of the steel Father had drilled into me from the time I was just a squire reciting speeches from braided rugs.

“As you head into the unknown, bear in mind all those who have already accomplished what you may have to. Many deeds are recorded in the Scrolls. Today's may be as well if you hold to our common purpose. 'A true brother wavers not from the path, though it be strewn with ten thousand daggers’", I quoted from the Codex. "Now go. And may the steel of generations be with you.”

I pressed a fist to my heart. As one, their gauntlets rose to returned the salute with an echoing clang. “Ad victoriam!” They shouted. The bailey rang with it.

At a signal from Vargas, the knights began locking their helmets down. The Chicago contingent tossed theirs into the air and caught them neatly before engaging the same mechanisms. I noticed Cicero threw his a little higher than the others and pursed my lips at the one-upmanship. But I wouldn’t discount a little gumption if it brought even one more soldier home safe.

I put off getting back to my never-ending queue of mail messages by looking in on the Citadel’s smallest residents, at least those whose parents were on duty. Our sub-basement nursery, away from the rads and noise of the surface, was, aside from the armory, our most secure location.

All was quiet this early. The scribes on duty had smiles and whispered greetings. One offered me the infant he'd just finished feeding, Knight Varham’s new daughter, who I instantly recognized from her unusual combination of dark skin and blonde hair. But she looked so comfortable, I didn't have the heart to intrude. Besides, looking at all these sleeping cherubs, seeing their curled-up fingers and plump cheeks was enough to give me the moment of peace I was looking for.

One floor up were the dorms, training halls, and classrooms where we corralled our squires. The slept with minimal supervision, the prevailing view being that sneaking off to eat sugary foods and keeping small secrets gave them some much-needed leeway before the rigors of knighthood set in. Which wasn’t to say we didn't keep tabs on them. Scribe Faris had been the one monitoring both the visible and hidden microphones six nights out of seven for the past several years. He did it from a small office where speakers sat arrayed on shelves. Savvy and well-liked, he enjoyed the long game of staying ahead of the squires who kept trying to fool his wits and ears.

“Elder Lyons,” he beamed, taking his long legs down off a table, as I let myself in with a skeleton key. The thin beard he was trying to grow didn’t suit the young man, but he’d find that out on his own. Or not.

“Who’s doing what this morning, Scribe?”

“You missed a good robot race around zero-thirty.”

“Oh really?” I asked with a conspiratorial lilt to my words. Officially banned because they were a waste of resources, competitions between kludged-together robots still took place in the Citadel’s deserted lower levels. As long as the squires were discreet, we left them to it.

“Eugenia Quinlan won. Again.” Faris flipped the apparently broken circuit board he'd been testing out of his lap and into a wastebasket. A box of several more sat nearby. Useful work to do as he listened.

I remembered with fondness the little tow-headed girl who was usually helping in the lab. “I hear she’s been champion for a while now.”

“Yeah, but this was a close one. Ma’am, I’m telling you, my caps are on Combes. He’ll have it inside of a month.”

Amused, I listened to more of the goings-on in the dorms. For all their clandestine activity, I heard plenty of snores coming out of the dorm speakers, and none from the levels down below. One speaker marked C-dorm broadcast squires chattering away as they completed some kind of pre-dawn chore. Probably something to do with laundry.

“Well, let me know how it shakes out. Meanwhile are you well supplied down here?”

“We could use — hang on.” At a strained _You take that back!_ , Faris dropped the leads to his multimeter and was out the door in a flash.

"Oh yeah? Make me!"

I listened with a furrowing brow. That first voice was all too familiar. It came from a squire who, after Adams, had started bunking with the others his age as well as performing all other duties alongside them. Father's orders.

The tinny speakers erupted into what sounded like a bar brawl. But Faris was in the room before five more seconds had gone by.

“Can it!” he shouted. As rapidly as it had started, the yelling stopped, although it was another couple of seconds before the scuffling did. “Gill, you're a mess. Clean up and then get to KP -- you're on every morning this week. Maxson, Scribe Teagan owns you until I say he doesn't. And so help me, you even look at anyone cross-eyed when you're up there and you are on report. Now move!”

I frowned. Teagan in operations was notorious for assigning the most thankless jobs. Arthur might well end up darning socks or scrubbing centuries of grime off of salvaged tech on Teagan's watch. This clearly wasn't his first time fighting.

“Sorry, you had to hear that,” Faris said, when he came back. I’d stayed put to avoid any wayward squires on their way to some well-deserved punishment. I was in no mood to see any bloody noses or black looks.

“How long has this been going on?”

Faris shook his head “He was doing all right until a few weeks ago and then, boom. Damned if I know why either.”

“Stay on it and keep me informed,” I said. There was a dull stake pushing its way into my temple and it was getting sharper.

“Ma’am,” he said as I left.

I grabbed some coffee from the mess, and then changed into PT gear to go run my ass off on one of the treadmills in B ring's stuffy training room. My score, a terrible 9 minute mile, just added to the list of things I had to catch up on.

•

“I hate sending you in blind.” I said later, spinning the Metro access card as it lay on the table.

A corner of Krieg’s mouth lifted. He crossed muscular forearms over a barrel chest and leaned back in one of the Great Hall's many wooden chairs. “You're sounding more like Owyn every day."

Around and around went the card. The big semi-circular conference tables were empty except for the two of us, planning this op while the others took their midday break. Still, it didn't feel right to argue with him.

He went on. "Maybe you don't feel like it, but I heard about how you sent Vargas and the others off this morning, too.” The smile widened, creasing wind-burnt cheeks. “I’d like to think I had a hand in that.”

Krieg's words and perceptiveness got a grin out of me. “You definitely tried to keep us on the straight and narrow.”

“Fighting me every step, you and that bunch you ran with. Still run with. Vargas. Kodiak. Bael.” Krieg shook his head. “Damn kids.”

Smiling, I slid the access card across the maps we'd laid out. “You never pushed the rules as a knight?”

“Negative,” he replied, but the twinkle in his eye told me otherwise.

I picked up my coffee cup and gave Krieg a small salute, which he returned with due regard. Blowing across the steaming surface, I took a tentative sip, then set the cup back down and eyed the Paladin. Would it be too obvious if I…?

No, I decided. Personal reasons aside, I had a legitimate reason to ask.

“Which squads are you taking?”

"Delta and kappa are both the most solid of the ones that are ready."

"Kappa. The yearlings." Both came out as statements even though they were questions.

He nodded. "Lamoureaux runs that group like she's known them all their lives. Caps to breadcrumbs she'll make Paladin someday. Danse too, if he can learn how people work. With that diligence and his head for tech, I could use a dozen like him.”

Krieg’s gaze became veiled as he wrapped thick-knuckled fingers around his cup and took his own cautious sip. I knew his thoughts were with his personnel, most of them handpicked from among the best the Wasteland offered. Krieg had always been a vocal advocate of recruiting, even when paladins like Brandis and Marr leaned stubbornly in the opposite direction.

“You'll get them sooner or later. We sure won’t get fresh ideas hiding in bunkers, like they do in the West.” I lifted my brows towards the back wall of the room where our flag hung behind steel bars, fluttering in the breeze from a vent.

“So I can count on you dropping in at our recruiting stations this year.”

I groaned, realizing he'd trapped me.

"Now, now, Elder Lyons. You'd be giving our potential sisters from the wastes a leg up, seeing what they could achieve."

"If I remember right, the last time I went on a recruiting run we had one of the most skewed sex ratios in recent years."

"Can the young men help it if a sister in power armor intrigues them?"

The look I directed at Krieg could have lased a hole in the rolling screen behind him, but he met it with such stoicism, I couldn't help but break down and laugh. "All right, Paladin, I'll be your pinup. But let's take extra care trying to keep the numbers even.”

"Thank you Elder Lyons. I'll have the mechanics buff your armor until they can see themselves."

"Getting back to the Metro,” I continued, suppressing an un-Elderly eye roll, " let's go over your route. No telling what's found its way down there after Lucy Augustine cleared the place out."

Krieg picked up the keycard and slipped it into his breast pocket. “We’ll find this M.A.R.Go.T., Elder. A few protectrons or ghouls won’t stop us.”

But a few ghouls or protectrons weren't what I was afraid of.

•

“Just put them over there,” I told the scribe I’d buttonholed to carry the Metro maps back from the Great Hall. “Standing up in that crate.”

As she shuffled over to put the long cylinders in place, I spent a moment reviewing the progress Danse had made. The eastern wall looked promising. Every law book had been catalogued and tucked away in storage. He’d also started making separate sections for American and World history, organized by author, not by title as they’d been during Father’s time. It was more logical. Many times, the only reference we had to a book was the author's name.

Scribe Mayak, one of our new transfers from the Midwest, apparently hadn’t learned a lesson about initiative. With her task accomplished, she'd defaulted to gazing at the many rows of books and the nearly equal number in stacks on the floor.

“Don’t stand there daydreaming, Scribe.”

Mayak bristled before smoothing it down. “Ma’am, is there anything else?”

My eyes slid shut for longer than a blink. I needed to watch my tone, especially with those who hadn’t known me all my life. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Cold coffee was disgusting. This didn’t stop me from checking every mugs scattered around the solar. It might be time to get a hot plate in here, even if the sour burn in my stomach hinted with the finesse of a spring radstag that it was a bad idea.

A soft knock broke into my thoughts. It came not from the hall, but from the door to my living area, telling me immediately who it was.

“Come in, Gallows.”

My head of recon and intelligence had the knack of being able to open and close any door in the Citadel without making a sound. Irving Gallows did this now, coming out of the solar's inner room like some kind of holo projection with the sound off.

“Please,” I nodded for him to sit. “It’s been awhile.”

One of Irving's stipulations, when I'd taken the mantle of Elder, was that outside of official reports, no one could ever see or hear him feeding me information. As during Father's time, the fact that no one ever saw us speaking kept the Citadel’s almost universal dislike for Gallows from boiling over.

“You know how it goes, Elder. No news is good news.” Irving’s voice had a rasp to it. He’d sustained an injury as we were taking Adams, resulting in some wag giving him the nickname Satchmo. Not that I, or anyone in the Pride ever used it. We all knew how vital his work was.

“Tell me you found Spot,” I said. Krieg's op weighed heavily on my mind.

“Wish I could,” he answered with patient brows held high. “How something that big and ugly can just vanish is giving my people gray hairs.”

I wandered towards my own chair. “There must be some major piece of intel we’re missing.”

“Best rumor I've heard is Talon Company figured out how to chloroform behemoths and is keeping this one as a sex toy.”

“Wouldn’t put it past them. What’s the news on those gaping anuses, anyway?”

“We pried them out of the trenches by the Capitol building but they’re good and dug in over at Seward Square. You might need to send the Pride out for that one.”

“I’ll run it by Vargas when they get back from Fort Bannister,” I sighed, wishing for the thousandth time I could go with them. “What else?”

“Well, there’s Rothchild.”

I winced inwardly. “Go on.”

“The Lab is keeping it quiet, but this week he called Peabody a thrice-damned idiot. Threw an actual radio at Durga a couple of days later.”

 _Tap-dancing shitfucks_ , I thought. And out loud: “He had the strength?”

“Surprised me too.” I could tell Gallows was uneasy about the news by the way he smoothed a finger along the Stealth Boy on his opposite wrist. He was the only brother or sister authorized to use this tech, subjecting himself to rigorous medical exams every month to make sure it wasn’t affecting his psyche.

For the first time since I'd made knight, I puffed out my cheeks in front of another person. Another secret that wouldn't leave the room. Whereas Abigail could be relied on unless she got roaring drunk, Irving would take any negative word about Father or myself to the grave.

“I’ll handle it,” I said once I realized he'd been waiting. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes. I wanted to confirm Knight Danse has been attending you.”

There was no use trying to lie. Asking meant he already knew. And unlike Cross, who would bring up the subject just to twist my shorts, Gallows would only do so if he had a damn good reason.

“On a casual basis, but yes,” I said simply.

He accepted my answer with a nod. “There's been plenty of talk since he started working in here. I've had eyes on him as well.”

“Full background check?” The smile that came out of me was genuine. Wouldn’t put it past Irving to have started investigating the second I picked Danse out in the bailey.

“His Rivet City background checks out and he has a good record here. But this morning, he woke up to a dead mole rat pup in his footlocker. Wasn't a clean kill either. Someone must have smuggled a live one in, shot it, and then mopped up all around."

I kept my voice light and steady even though the fine hairs at the nape of my neck rose. Some called it situational awareness, others intuition. I called it “fuck me sideways”. "And if you knew who did it or why, you would have led with that."

Another dark nod conceded the point. “The 'why' sounds like it has do with Danse being Wasteland-born. So the 'who' are the usual suspects."

"How do you know this?"

“Like I said, there's been a lot of talk."

To give Irving credit, he kept his face blank. We shared opinions about the traditionalists who maligned loyal soldiers such as Danse and Gallows himself, who Father had plucked as a boy from the ruins of The Pitt. Plenty of these conservatives had gone off to found the Outcasts, but definitely not all of them.

So I nodded my silent thanks to Gallows even as I kept harsh words to myself. I'd picked Danse partly to avoid controversy and now it was sticking to him like chunks of dead mole rat to most of his gear. What the fuck had I gotten him into?

Sharp knocks broke in. With no wasted motion, Gallows stood up and eased back into the solar's inner chamber. I opened the door to find a thick-set squire with curly hair that refused to lie down despite how short it was. He had some scrapes on his cheeks and chin.

“Elder Lyons, Paladin Bael said to inform you Paladins Vargas and Cicero are back.”

"Thank you, Squire … Gill, is it?" I hazarded a guess this was the boy Arthur had been fighting.

"Yes ma'am," he beamed.

His face fell when all I said was, "Dismissed."

I left the door open, so Gallows could active his stealth field and leave on his own schedule. Then I marched as fast as was Elderly to the bailey and then across it to the wide doors of the power armor repair bay on the other side. The two squads looked uniformly grim, returning their weapons to the cage, and starting to hose the worst of the grime off their suits. I hated to break into the important process of winding down from an op, but I had to know.

Vargas was looking every one of his twenty five years. His flat-top was flatter than usual and his fiercely proud gaze had dimmed. “We got most of their tags. No one was turned, at least not that we could see. But no survivors.”

Past his shoulder I could see Cross marching towards us. My heart, already aching from this loss of an entire squad, took another blow as I saw the stiffness in her knees and hips that even her many augmentations couldn’t hide. Wearily, I focused back on Vargas.

“Clean on your side?”

“No losses. One of the Hellfire units seized. Greenskins swarmed the knight and Cicero nearly herniated himself pulling her back, but nothing stims couldn’t handle.” Vargas gave Cross a nod as she pulled her chassis up to our sorry little parking lot.

“Any sign of that behemoth?” I asked.

“It was too hot look around for long, but there was no scat, no tracks."

“Shit,” Cross grumbled, saving me from having to say it, for once.

“Anyway, we took enough muties for a kickball team”, Vargas said with the Pride’s trademark grim humor. There was a shout from the line of power armor repair stations. One of the Hellfire rigs, maybe the same one as before, had locked up, only this time in the middle of discharging its wearer.

“Sorry, I need to get this,” he said and moved off to assist.

“Spring funerals.” Cross gave me a slow shake of her head. I knew what she meant. When the world was just waking up, when it seemed that we’d gotten past the teeth of the year, a turn like this truly brought home the hateful reality of the wasteland.

The lump that I forced myself to swallow down was spiky and hot, tasting of the tears I wouldn’t allow myself to shed. It tore my insides to shreds, all the way from throat to belly.

“Senna’s wife is expecting.”

“We'll take care of our own.” Cross said.

My hands curled into fists. “Except she's a Wastelander. She has no pedigree.”

She zeroed in on the venom in my voice. “Where is this coming from?”

Instead of meeting Cross’s too-perceptive gaze, I turned towards the Hellfire troops tugging at the locked up suit. Someone had found a pry bar.

“Look at them.” I jerked my chin towards Cicero and the others. “They just got here, what, a few months ago? They’re true outsiders but they were welcomed with open arms. The ones like Gallows and… the rest are treated like mirelurk scat.”

Now Cross was cautious. These moods were rare, but she respected them — usually from a distance.

“You are Elder. It’s up to you to lead us forwards— “ she inclined her head respectfully “— not back.”

I watched the air wrenches come out. Vargas worked to get the knight out of that suit, right alongside Cicero.

Cross was right on two counts. I was Elder. And we did protect our own. “Did you hear? No survivors.”

"I heard," she nodded and turned to make her way back. But I laid a hand on her arm. Took a deep breath. There was no reason to be nervous, but I was.

“Before you go, there’s one more thing we need to discuss.”


	8. Chapter 8

Danse’s knock sent a bullet ricocheting through my guts. I’d been waiting for the sound of it since before Krieg, Vargas, and Cross had stacked up our dinner trays and taken leave of me and the solar. His polite rap came at about the same time every night. But tonight was different.

I bit my lip. “Enter.”

“Ma’am,” Danse said.

He glanced at my Class A jacket with its quilted shoulders rising above the Brotherhood’s insignia on one arm. On a brass plate near my heart lay inscribed the Elder’s winged shield and three diamonds. All of us had these jackets and wore them for ceremonial occasions, though that was only half the reason I'd put mine on. The other was it helped define my waist.

“Before you get started, have a seat. You're not in trouble. We just need to discuss a few things.”

Wary was one word for how Danse looked. He pulled out a chair, no doubt aware of how his work had made that easy to do without moving papers around.

“Two things. First off, while I appreciate stoicism in our brothers and sisters, I want you to report any further actions against you to Krieg. Understood?”

It took a heartbeat for Danse to hide his surprise. “Ma’am, that was just a prank.”

“Knight, your combat stats are good, but let’s work on your tactical thinking." Here, an incoming mail blip from the terminal in the back room underscored what I wanted to say. “News travels fast around here. I’m not sure if you know how fast.”

“You didn’t know about my … reputation,” Danse pointed out. He only reddened a little.

"You're right. But with me it’s a different story. Anyone associated with the Elder,” I paused to see how he was taking it. Stoic to the end, it seemed, “is going to be under the microscope. Especially if they’re new. You and I both know the reason you had to clean mole rat guts out of your equipment this morning.”

Head bowed, Danse closed his eyes to acknowledge the truth.

“But I can protect someone in your position,” Positions, I thought, but shut the door on my dirty mind, “from this kind of reactionary bullshit. Which gets to my second point.”

I folded sweaty hands on the table, all the while cursing myself for feeling nervous about anything this simple after having faced down the wasteland for years. “I, Elder Sarah Lyons, would like to enter into a formal arrangement with you. Knight Tristan Danse, I have decided to honor you with the opportunity to attend to my person on an ongoing basis. Will you accept?”

The reaction I was waiting for turned out to be a second of gaping like a fish before his cheeks lit up like laser rifles.

“Y-yes, of course.”

Relieved beyond words, I still watched him closely. “Even with all the scrutiny you'll have to deal with?”

His hand started to creep up towards the back of his neck before he put it away and said, “I’m willing to make that trade.”

I smiled. Danse really was a good choice. He had no agenda beyond getting us off, something that would happen a lot if I had anything to say about it. “Good answer. That means you only have to wait until … I’m guessing tomorrow at latest before the news that I've made this official is all over the Citadel.”

Bemusement rose up around him like a fog. “How would anyone even know that fast?”

“Simple. I told Cross, because I had to ask how this works. She’ll tell or — I’m kidding myself. She’s already told Jameson because the Head Archivist keeps the records.”

“There are records?”

I was getting too much pleasure out of watching Danse blanch and blush. Didn’t there used to be sea creatures like that? With tentacles? “Believe me, I’m no happier than you are. But it was a mistake to think there'd be any privacy when it came to this."

Wheels were turning as he sat back just a little. Then he said, “Did you want to start now?”

 _Galloping bitchtits_ , it wasn't even — I might have turned whatever color those pre-war sea creatures did to show shock. But then I realized that it didn’t matter what the clock said. Taking care of this now would underscore my point. Brothers and sisters, your Elder has reached a decision. Fall in line, or else.

Okay, that excuse sounded flimsy even to me. Still.

I did as much to hide my sweaty-palm-wiping as possible. Then I said, “If you don’t have any objections."

With his big, dark eyes on mine he said, “I’m at your service.”

My boots gave me an extra inch when I stood up and went to him. It meant he had to work a little harder to kiss me, though by the time his arms slid around me, the extra height difference didn’t matter. His breath was hot and his tongue even hotter. This time he kissed me with full, knee-weakening participation, right from the get-go. Damn, he was a fast learner. But I had so much more to teach him, starting with—

A door banging shut somewhere made us jerk apart as we realized ours was still unlocked. Catching sight of the taut, purposeful lines of his face and the hungry way he was looking at me, I wasn’t all that sure I cared if someone caught us in the act. Still, I went over to secure things and then give Danse a little head tilt towards the inner room. I locked that door behind us, too.

The annoying unlacing-of-boots needed to happen before we went any further. It ended with me sitting astride Danse on the bed, churning around on his obvious desire as I slipped off my jacket and shook my hair out.

My goal was to unzip him and catch the exact moment — and there it was — it became obvious he was out of uniform. Hundreds of years ago, there’d been a phrase called “going regimental”. At least one of us was getting something good out of everything in Danse’s footlocker being in the wash. I ran my fingers down his chest and smiled.

He answered with not just a bolt-from-the-blue look, but a heady throb to go with it. I leaned over so I could kiss that strip of furred skin and slide his zipper down for more. He took the hint and started undoing mine, taking me out of my sleeves. Fuck, I wanted him. But we couldn’t just get naked and start in. There was still plenty to show him.

I pulled him up to kiss while I slid the uniform off his shoulders. Everything I bared I explored with careful sweeps of my hands. Well, nearly everything. The part of him that bobbed deliciously free got no attention at all. Then, suddenly, I couldn’t help myself. Fuck finesse. He smelled too good.

My lips intercepted his blunt, rounded glans. I plunged down a few times before getting him to follow the heat, coming up off the bed so I could get his suit past his hips. The collapse of that convex curve dragged his cock back out of my mouth, but by then, I was in position to fully engage.

I wanted to make this really good for him, so I sucked hard, cylindering up and down on his piston in a reverse of how engines usually worked. My tongue swirled down his shaft as far as I could manage. Not far, since he was quite a mouthful, but there were other positions we could try later that would open my throat up for him.

At the same time, I stroked whatever didn’t fit. I even reached down to cup and fondle the balls that had drawn so tight against his body. When his counter hit zero — too soon, we’d have to work on that — I wasn’t even sure if Danse knew his fingers were tangled in my hair, twisting and tugging just on the delicious edge of almost too much.

I slowed and then rested my cheek against his furred belly as he shuddered and panted through the final weak spasms. Then I my mouth to the very tip and slowly lapped the last few drops up. Like a cat with a dish of Brahmin cream, I licked my lips clean next and nuzzled my nose against him. All that remained was to scoot back up to rest my head in the hollow of his shoulder and caress his thumping chest and still-twitching abdomen soothingly.

“Feel better now?”

Too shattered to speak and too weak to do anything besides nod. Those were the results of my initial onslaught against Danse’s libido, at least until a minute later when he tipped his evening stubble towards me and said, “But what about you?”

“You’re learning,” I said, and propped myself up on one elbow. “And we'll do more. But you got mole rat pieces after I made you finish yourself off last time. I had to make up for that somehow.”

My back was getting chilly, but whoever cleaned in here always made my bed so tight you could bounce a cap off it. So I opened one of the wardrobes next to the bed and took out a wool blanket, olive-colored and decorated with an older version of the Brotherhood's crest.

"Family heirloom," I said, flipping it out over Danse before shedding my clothes and crawling back to the warmth I’d used our strange Brotherhood tradition to lay claim to. I poked him in the ribs once I was settled. “You’ll keep quiet about me having a security blanket, right?”

“Whatever happens here stays here,” he said with a straightforwardness that reminded me what a good choice I’d made.

“Good man. Anything else you want to know? About me, attending?”

He chewed his lip for a moment. “Why are there records?”

“We’re big on familial succession. Maxson after Maxson, as you know.”

“Didn’t they … oh.”

I'd slung a leg over Danse so I could keep tabs on his combat-readiness. “Sorry. Startle you?”

“No, I like it.” He gave my thigh a squeeze under the blanket.

I smiled. “Then why the ‘oh’?”

“I just remembered. They probably didn’t have the shots back then.”

“Right. We only got reliable birth control … I want to say fifty, sixty years ago? Sisters used to have to act like nuns if they wanted to stay in the field,” I wrapped my arm around Danse and gnawed with some exaggeration at the side of his neck. “Lucky for me, that’s not a problem anymore.”

The hand slid up to my ass and squeezed again. “Luckier for me.”

I smiled wider. For awhile after that, Danse stayed lost in thought. I was more than happy to let his fingers wander pleasantly around, tracing one scar in particular, the one on my left cheek."

“That’s courtesy of Arthur, aged ten.” Peering up allowed me to take in Danse’s horrified expression. “It’s why we stopped giving squires anything with a hair trigger.”

Danse tried to control it. He really did. But in the end he gave in and, really, who could help it?

“What's this?” I reached up and tweaked his chin. “I get shot in the ass and all you can do is grin at me?”

Danse tried to school his expression into something more appropriate and totally failed.

“That’s it. Gruel and latrine duty for you.” Just in case he thought I was serious, I hooked my thigh even tighter around him and curled my fingers between his arm and side. He wasn’t going anywhere until I’d had my fill of him. Literally.

“What punishment —“ I feathered my lips against his throat “— should an insolent knight receive?” His hold on me tightened when I scraped teeth over his neck. A more localized twitch told me even more.

“Recon duty,” he answered.

“Not much of a punishment.”

“Are you sure? It could be dangerous.”

“What sort of danger are we talking about here?” My hand trailed up and down his belly in lazy patterns.

“I might get lost. Here…” his hand splayed wide and squeezed the Maxsonian legacy. “Or here.” Clever fingers stroked upwards and found a c-shaped scar on the outside of my thigh.

"What you need to do," a snake-like wriggle got me mostly on top of Danse. He had more mass and reach, but I knew a few things about pinning a bigger opponent. "Is explore systematically."

Another wriggle drew an appreciative sigh out of him and slid me up where I wanted to be. Draped over him like the blanket, warmed breasts plumped against him and thighs gripping. I dropped a kiss on his nose and retreated only an inch so he could see my face.

I let my tongue touch one of my eyeteeth. “Want to see if you can still taste yourself?”

Referencing that hint of earth and sea in my mouth must have napalmed Danse’s brain, at least from what I could tell. He captured me with a long, slow tangling of tongues. My hair fell around our faces and the lingering taste of him melded with the deeper hints of coffee he must have had with dinner. It also got him most of the way to being ready in a few strong pumps of his heart. Then his hands started moving again. Along my thighs, my ass. Down the crack of it and farther, maybe to feel how wet I was.

He was so gentle. In contrast to my own pulse, which was shelling me. I couldn’t wait any longer.

“Time for recon yet?"

It was gratifying how fast his long arm snaked down behind me to stroke himself a few times, before lining up, his rifle cocked, so to speak.

Which gave me an idea. With Tristan still poised against me, I knelt up and felt the blanket fall away.. “Stay there, I’m coming in for a landing.”

It was a controlled descent, slick and smooth enough to need nothing but my weight to seat him fully. I couldn’t help but grind down on him, especially when he pushed. And, oh, that stare. Dark and dazed. Full of lust and plenty of other sins. It did things to me, deep and delicious things that got my hips moving.

He tried, he really did, but his thrusts were a little too jerky and eager. Out of sync by a half-second. I jolted around for maybe ten of those before deciding we need to try something else.

"Hold still."

Bracing my hands on his chest, I lifted until he nearly slipped free, hovered, and then sank back down. I paused for a second to savor his look, his hardness. Then I did it again. And again, only this time I stopped at the top of the arc and closed my eyes in anticipation. “Push.”

That was his cue to go deep and mine to groan as I flexed inwardly. The next time he held my hips a little harder, filling me so deliciously I felt tingling to the roots of my hair. A moan slid out of me, low and long as he strained upwards inside me. It got him breathing harder.

“Good. Now faster. But wait for me to get there. That’s an order.”

Danse nodded, gritting his teeth.

Reaching forward, I planted my weight on one hand. The middle finger of the other one slipped down between us.

“Okay. Steady now.”

He started off slower than I would’ve liked, but not by much. If it helped Danse control himself, I was fine with it. My clit was so needy and swollen and then other areas started reporting in. One finger became two, then three, circling hard and fast as he picked up the pace. Still jerky, still too eager, but I was ready for him now.

That’s when the sounds started coming out of me. Half a cry that turned into panting and a whimper. Then a drawn-out moan that ended with my thighs quivering. Initial flutters and then the long, slow pulses that made me want to collapse, even as I rode the rest of the climax out on top of him.

It didn’t take him long after that. He bucked upwards and plunged deep with a grunt and a shudder, curling so far forward that I couldn’t see his face for a second.

We stayed bound up in each other’s arms until our breathing slowed. Until he slipped out of me with an unanswered wish for no cooldown time so we could start all over again. It was greedy, but I wanted to just concentrate on the feeling of Danse moving strongly inside me and nothing else.

But already crowding this out were thoughts of everything I’d been avoiding. Even as I absently nuzzled and kissed Tristan’s neck and enjoyed the strength of his arms. I was with the Pride. With Cicero and his knights. And with the families of all the deceased. I didn’t even have all their names in my head yet. Father would’ve known.

But I wasn’t Father. There were many who would never let me forget it.

I rolled off him and onto my back.

“Sarah?” He’d gone back to cautious, too, coming up onto his side to face me.

“I’m all right. Just thinking.”

I thought of strained supply lines. Krieg and the upcoming Metro ops. And more immediately, what was the protocol for getting Danse out of here now that he’d carried out his duties?

A flurry of incoming mail messages interrupted my musings. One, two, three — really? An irritated hiss escaped me and my gut said it had to be Rothchild. Either from or about. Son of a bitch, I just wanted five minutes to enjoy the afterglow. Was that too much to ask?

Instead, I sighed, tracing the warm, hard contours of his bicep. “There’s still a lot I should do tonight. Plus everyone’s going to be traipsing through here. You should take the night off from organizing.”

If I hadn’t just seen Danse's face contorted into plenty of other expressions, I might think he only had the solemn one that fell into place. The wry thought pushed back my worry long enough to focus on him, like he deserved. My hand slid higher over the curve of his shoulder — impressively muscled, now that I was paying attention again — and around behind his neck.

“But there’s time for one more kiss. If you want.”

He rested his other elbow next to my shoulder, enclosing me in his embrace and blocking out the world with his broad back, just for a moment. This kiss started with a gentle, slow brush of lips still plump from before. The barest touch of tongue-tips. It deepened, just as slow and sweet as it began. I would have been all too happy to go on if the terminal hadn’t given another series of electronic burps. And someone knocking outside. They'd leave if they found the door locked, but not for long.

Danse drew back, and something flickered in his eyes. It was only there for a second before he smiled ruefully and rolled off of me.

“Back to work,” he said, getting to his feet.

Silently, I nodded and rose to sit on the the other side of the bed and start dressing. I was grateful for his understanding, yet I already missed the warmth and strength of his arms. It was a consequence I hadn’t anticipated, and —

The quiet click of the bedroom door interrupted my thoughts. It was what I wanted. Why, then, did it make me feel so alone?

 _Suck it up, Lyons_ , I thought echoing what Krieg and Cross had Father had been telling me for years.

Then I dressed and padded over to the terminal. I had funerals to see to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good song for this chapter is [Orion's Belt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qjksx6BJyUM) by Sabrina Claudio.


	9. Chapter 9

As we left the bailey, there was no sound but the clank of power armor and the sonorous drumbeat guiding our procession. The honor guard with its burden -- light for armored troops but heavier for our hearts -- made its way down the wind-whipped slope beyond the Citadel's gate to where the pyres already stood, squat and forbidding, in the golden light of late afternoon.

Cross and I, in full armor minus our helmets, followed the litter-bearers with their effigies wrapped in white. Behind us came Jameson, her book-bearers, the many witnesses, and then our rearguard with their rifles slung but their eyes watchful. The same was true of the snipers on the walls behind us. Raiders and mercs knew better than to attack a procession like this, but it wasn’t out of the questions for mutants, or even deathclaws to wander by and end up doing what they always did.

The drums kept a pace of about one beat per second as the honor guard placed an effigy — there weren’t enough remains to even attempt reconstructions — on each platform. When marsh grasses and kindling had been laid overtop, a familiar, weighty silence seized me, squeezing until my heart felt ready to burst.

I couldn’t help but think of the turnout for Father's funeral. We’d all but emptied the Citadel. The procession and speeches had taken half the day, and I’d stood, hollowed out, while keeping the calm façade our traditions demanded until it was time for my words. At least today I could spend this time in silence. Head archivist Jameson would do the readings and Paladin Valdez had asked for the honor of speaking about his departed squad.

The wind blew warmer but also stronger than it had even yesterday. Every grey bush rippled and every tree-husk creaked with the force of it.

Jameson’s hair was also prematurely gray, though not long enough to impede her words or eyesight as the wind at our backs raked everything forwards. It was with a precise and soothing diction that she read from the Codex:

“There is great reason to hope that death is a good; for one of two things—either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by dreams, death will be an unspeakable gain…Now if death be of such a nature, I say that to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all dead abide, what good, O brothers and sisters, can be greater than this?…Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of a certainty, that no evil can happen to a valiant soldier, either in life or after death.”

There was a sob from behind us. Try as we might to put on brave faces, some always slipped before they could go somewhere private. I wondered if Senna’s wife was among them. Could an unborn children feel a mother’s grief?

Jameson passed the Codex off to one of her book-bearers and took the the most recent volume of the Scrolls from the other one. As the winds swept on, she read out the lineages and defining moments of everyone we had lost.

“You all right?” Cross murmured as Jameson worked her way through all nine. This was the first funeral since Father's that was big enough to demand my presence.

“I’ll live,” I quipped.

Cross shook her head to imply the eye roll she couldn't make. “At least your mouth is still working.”

A “that’s what he said” flitted through my mind. Though I kept that disrespectful thought to myseif, it did make me spare a thought for Danse. Was he part of the rearguard? Out patrolling the wastes? I had no idea.

Instead, I looked to the honor guard that would stand watch until everything was burned down to cinders. Some of their cheeks were wet. Some of the witnesses whispered behind Cross and myself as Paladin Vasquez, the line of his jaw accented by the razor-sharp edge of his brown beard, took Jameson’s place. With his back to the tidy platforms of stacked wood and the sun low behind us, Valdez’s normally fair skin took on the appearance of ancient bronze.

“These brothers have reported for a duty that takes them to a distant outpost,” he began, with that familiar, deliberate cadence. Valdez had always been an outstanding speaker. The running joke was he could trade feathers to a radgull.

“As they journey into the evening, as they slip the bonds of this harsh and ruined plane, let us salute them. What greater honor than when a man moves forward, he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was. Courage, obedience, resilience, sacrifice. Qualities bred true from a time when the walls of our Western bunkers shed the earth’s tears. When legacies were made of valor, and men were made of steel.”

Even though my contact suit was completely linked and my T-45 moved like a comfortable pair of fatigues, it was still possible to stiffen inside my armor..

“He can’t leave off the politics for five minutes?” I whispered, watching Valdez to make sure his gaze was elsewhere.

“Not now,” warned Abigail.

“Those of us who remain behind, we remember and always remember. You now reside forever in our Scrolls and in our hearts. March on, brothers, into your final tour. Ad victoriam.”

These final words were from the Codex. All of us had to repeat them. All of us had to salute. With his politicking, Valdez had twisted the meaning of this time-honored ending. It now appeared we all agreed with his insistence on a much older tradition that Valdez and his cohort thought should should run the Citadel.

“Present arms!” shouted Brandis. The sounds of the honor guard shifting their weapons broke the stillness.

A low throb of a drumbeat, almost mocking hearts that would be forever still.

“Ready arms!”

Another beat on skin stretched over emptiness. It felt like I was the drum. Maybe we all were.

“Fire!”

The percussive hiss of nine laser rifles all firing in perfect time sounded as scarlet bolts streaked over us, over the pyres, and away to the darkening west. Eighteen volleys, three for each squad member. Including the sisters Valdez hadn’t seen fit to mention. Traditionalists argued that of course “brothers” meant all of us, though Jameson and many others had long used "brothers and sisters" or “soldiers” instead.

One of Jameson’s followers put the Citadel’s tarnished bugle to his lips. But as the first notes of Taps mingled with the rays of the setting sun, the song’s lonely caress brought the crush of sadness back to my throat. Taps never failed to seize me in the most painful grip, though today I had the added burden of trying not to curl my lip at Valdez. I'd made myself a promise never to let this paladin rise any higher than his current rank. Or any of his supporters, a faction I called the Worshippers of the West. Or just the Worshippers. They'd been scheming to steer the Citadel in their direction since long before Father died. With any more power, they could upend it completely.

Spent as I was, my brain wouldn’t settle that night. My dreams were vivid and heavy with meaning. In one I walked alone through the wasteland seeing campfires, lanterns, the glow of a bulb or two. Each time I arrived at the source of a light, it would dwindle down to nothing, leaving me lost.

Another dream took place where so many of them did — in the solar. I was leaning over a chessboard. Listening hard brought me snatches of Father’s voice as he read to a younger version of myself:

_"Where are the people?' resumed the little prince at last. 'It’s a little lonely in the desert…'_

_'It is lonely when you’re among people, too,' said the snake.”_

When I looked down, the pieces on the chessboard became snakes as well.

A hand on my calf woke me. I kicked instinctively into blackness, but the hand was too strong. It pinned my leg in place while something soft wrapped my ankle. The other one -- and my wrists -- were already bound.

Adrenaline threw my heart into overdrive — always fight, never flight — but I couldn't do either. My only choice was to lie there spread-eagled and straining to see through whatever was blocking my vision. I drew breath to swear such a blue streak it would paint a swath from here to Rivet City.

He leaned in first. “Shhh. Relax.”

And I did. The air was cool enough to pebble my bare skin and coax my nipples into little peaks.

Again, I pulled at the restraints. This was not something I should allow, let alone enjoy. And yet I was. The prickling at my nape, the tingling between my legs — they weren’t from fear.

“Good girl.” And though I knew that voice, I couldn't place it.

A touch along my jaw rewarded me. It trailed so far down that I knew its destination even before I felt it. Still, I arched like a bowstring, straining upwards as another part of me questioned if I'd gone insane. Who was this? Why were we here?

But he was touching me again. So I chased that feeling, not worrying about where I was or who I was with. Scooping my hips up towards him. Didn’t matter if it was right. It felt so good I was right there. Flying. Trying. The little death. The little victory.

Then I woke up for real.

The room was too hot. The orange light from my space heater cast the foot of the bed in shadow. Tangled in the sheets, I pulled my legs in, reassuring myself that some faceless stranger hadn't been holding me captive in my own room. That I hadn’t liked it.

What a colossal bunch of bullshit.

I rolled out of bed and shucked my underwear to get ready for PT. The clock said it was earlier than usual, but fuck it. I needed to move.

The east training hall was deserted, no doubt due to the rare second half-day this week to honor the departed.

Everyone lucky enough to be off watch or free from the other essential duties had the afternoon and evening to themselves. Many would visit the close family of the deceased, bringing sympathy and stories. Others might enjoy the distractions of Rivet City, or hide away with a lover like I’d been doing the other night.

I started with interval training on the treadmill, a rapid march and then sprints, making each cycle longer as I went. But it wasn’t like I could run away from what I had to do later on, which was sitting with the families of the bereaved. I also couldn’t run from thoughts of Rothchild. Or reports about fucking Talon Company taking another outpost as we mourned.

At the weight bench I strained under curls and presses. But the real weight I struggled with was what to do about Prime’s rarest components: his nukes and beryllium agitator. I didn’t like crating our most effective weapon up unless he was ready for another round, but we didn’t have the resources to go nosing around the Capital in search of these things. We had to bring the region under control. Supervise trade routes so settlers to grow and supply the food all of us needed to survive.

Cardio, weights, stretching — none of it kept me from thinking about the Worshippers either. That dangerous faction who hadn't had the guts to strike out on its own like the Outcasts, but blamed Father and now me for everything that crossed them. 'Babysitting' settlers. Loss of contact with the West. Dwindling supplies of both raw materials and tech, even though we'd been here for decades and the flow was bound to slow for that reason alone.

As if summoned by my thoughts, three Worshippers entered training hall, speaking amongst themselves in tones too low to pick up. The pinch-faced Paladin Leoni at the apex of their triangle was the first to see me. A small gesture from him silenced the other two, and he nodded at me.

“Elder Lyons.”

I forced my protesting core muscles to curl me upright. Shit. Now I was going to have to do at least two more sets to dispel any ideas about weakness. either womanly or of a bloodline gone soft. Gallows overheard plenty of what they all thought which meant, in the end, so did I.

Applying the same degree of coolness to my voice, I returned the greeting. “Leoni. Valdez. Marr.”

I would tolerate them, yes. Get all chatty during a workout, not so much.

I crunched until my guts burned, my pace steady, even under this additional weight of those unfriendly eyes. Only later, in the relative safety of the showers did I let my shoulders slump as I stripped and tossed everything into the laundry cart. The cool water felt so good on my overheated body that I turned in the needle-fine spray until the water became ice cold. I needed the chill in my blood. A coating of ice was the only way to survive.

That and talk to Abigail. I'd find her would be in the Great Hall or the bailey. She’d have words of wisdom. Or at least some coffee I could steal.

I actually set foot inside the Great Hall before remembering that on funeral-related half-days Cross stayed in her office, organizing the afternoon’s events. But by then I’d been accosted by no less than Durga, Peabody, Brandis, and the inevitable Rothchild, all demanding concessions that took hours to sort out. To rub salt in the wound, I had to turn down a very tempting invitation to join my Kodiak and Glade on a radturkey hunt.

“Steel knows we could use the meat,” I said as we stood in the corridor outside the Great Hall. “But you two had better go without me.”

“You sure? We could use somebody who's on their level.” Kodiak grinned until I swatted him. One of the few perks of becoming Elder was that I no longer had to listen to the Pride joking about my height every single day.

I smiled at my brothers in all but blood. “Ask me again next year. The minute I can afford to take an eye off this place, I’ll bag more than both of you put together.”

Glade put an exaggerated hand to his ear and frowned. “Hear that, Bear? I could’ve sworn there was some kind of squeaking.”

“Fuck off,” I tossed back, completely losing the battle to keep a straight face. Damn, I missed the easy camaraderie we all used to have. Plus I was losing my edge. I needed to set time aside to start drilling with them on a regular basis.

I took a flatbread sandwich and a rare Nuka Cola out to the bailey, where the sky was as clear and the air as gentle as the scribes had foretold. Cross had one of the bailey’s best vantage points on a pitted cinderblock wall behind one of the firing ranges. I picked my way up the side of it and sat down on the sun-warmed bricks beside her.

The squires were putting on a great show with their competitions. They squirreled up ropes attached to the bailey's walls, and measured their running jumps onto a sandy spot near the gate. They balanced round stones painted to look like frag grenades on spoons and ran them length of the bailey as fast as possible. They also wrestled, although here the adult competitions were more popular. The knights had staked out a tarp inside the unarmed combat ring and so opponents matched according to gender and weight class. A large audience cheered and placed bets.

“Who've you got?” I asked Cross.

“Bael,” Abigail replied. I wasn’t surprised — the Citadel’s Warden of the Gate had arms as thick around as my thighs. She was a solid bet anytime, and beyond that, I genuinely liked her. She was as honest and nice as they came.

I held up a hand before Cross could ask the question in return. “You know I can’t place wagers. No favoritism allowed.”

She grinned. “Ten caps on the usual?”

I hummed noncommittally and looked the other way when Cross beckoned one of the scribes over and gave him a handful of caps to place on Bael. Even some squires were in on the action, betting sweets and cheap Rivet City trinkets as they rooted for their favorites. I saw even Arthur’s familiar cowlick among the heads that, just for today, were free of field caps.

Sun-warm and with a full belly, I leaned back on my elbows and tilted my nose skyward. Radgulls were circling lazily, riding the invisible air currents that pushed up against the Citadel's strong outer walls. The scents of saltwater and bruised vegetation tickled my nose. Occasionally I glanced over towards the wrestling ring when I heard a particularly loud cheer, but I was mostly content to think of nothing for awhile.

“Sarah?” Cross’s quiet voice broke into my wandering thoughts.

I cracked an eye and squinted at her. “Hmm?”

“I think you’ll want to see this match.”

Curious, I angled my head to see better. One of the soldiers was dark haired, broad in the shoulders …. I blinked and sat bolt upright, spilling the last few swallows of my Nuka.

“Oh.”

I drank in a double eyeful of Danse instead. My vantage point was excellent, although I scooted closer to Cross in an attempt to hide my blatant gawking behind her tall figure. Probably unnecessary, since most every eye was on the ring by now, but still.

Danse was stretching, pulling first one arm, then the other across his chest. He rolled his head around on a corded neck and bounced lightly on his toes. I couldn’t see who he was sizing up, as his opponent was still surrounded by people.

I felt a finger underneath my chin and jerked back in surprise. Cross grinned merrily at me and patted my cheek. “Just relocating your jaw.”

I batted away her impertinence. “Hands off the Elder.”

“That’s not what you told him, now was it?”

She was too quick. Best thing was to clam my lips together and offer no more ammo. The contender was in sight now anyway.

“Oh,” I said again.

I knew that red hair and cocky smile, though I hadn’t realized Cicero was so powerfully built. Leaner than Danse, he was still in excellent form. Matter of fact, I felt a sudden need to look somewhere else when Cicero peeled his tank up over his head and tossed it aside.

They wasted no time. Circling and crouched, with arms extended, Danse made the first feint, but Cicero didn’t bite. Danse tried again, and this time their shoulders and arms locked together, heads lowered and feet digging in for traction on the tarp. But neither could get enough leverage and they broke apart after long, straining seconds.

I didn’t realize my fingers were digging into my own thigh until Cross muttered an amused “hands off the Elder” and tugged my arm away.

I shot her an irritated look. By the time excited shouts drew me back to ring, Danse was scrambling to his feet. Had Cicero tossed him already? Damn, wish I’d seen that.

As they circled warily, Cicero’s smile had faded but was replaced with determination so intense I could practically feel it. I held my breath until Danse came back around and… yes. He had the same intensity I’d last seen someplace much more private. It made my mouth go dry.

Having my eyes glued to these two men still didn't prepare me for the speed of what came next. Cicero ducked his shoulder and drove forward, catching Danse in the chest. Danse twisted sideways and tried to heave Cicero off of him, but Cicero had snagged Danse’s knee and pulled it out from under him and was on him for the three count. I sat up from my forward lean and sighed.

It was a shame. I could have watched them all afternoon.


	10. Chapter 10

The folders in front of me all had names: Bianchi. Ratzenberger. Villeneuve. Pryce…. I shuffled through them, reviewing the list again and again until the last folder was back on top. The tab on that one read Senna. This tidy collection, with its square corners and neat block printing represented lives. I couldn’t file it away before I made sure nothing like this ever happened again. That and ensured the greenskins paid in blood for what they’d taken from us

I pinched the bridge of my nose and dug my fingers up towards my sinuses. It didn’t help. This headache had come roaring back the moment I’d left the bailey, growing fiercer with every visit to every grieving family throughout the afternoon. The ordeal left me wrung out. It had me wishing, not for the first time, for a break from my duties. What I'd give to go radturkey hunting with the Pride and let someone else wear the three diamonds for awhile

“Permission to enter?”

I pasted on a smile and looked towards the entrance to the Great Hall, empty now of all but myself and one victorious wrestler.

“What can I do for you, Paladin?"

Cicero pushed off of the door frame at my nod. He came to a halt in front of a board that was more maps than cork at this point. Bannister loomed large in one sector. By some oversight, the pushpin marking the missing squad was still stuck there like a piece of shrapnel in my heart.

"You might as well take that down," I said wearily and Cicero did so without comment. He was carrying a bottle of vodka, maybe to or from some memorial. The Midwestern cohort had only been with us since fall, but Cicero had grown up in the Brotherhood. He knew the drill as well as any of us.

We stood there for a minute, my eyes on the tiny hole near Fort Bannister. It took a few seconds to realize his were on my face.

As if just remembering it was in his hand, he held the liquor towards me. “Any chance you want some of this?”

My lips curled into something closer to a real smile. I pushed out of my chair and accepted his offer. Twisted the cap off and took a long, burning swallow. Cicero’s eyebrows rose appreciatively and that cocky grin reappeared. I doubted it was ever far from view.

I passed it back. “That just earned you a drink, too. Though something tells me you don't always ask permission.”

Cicero raised the bottle. “Guilty,” he said before taking his own long swallow and exhaling with a grunt.

“I should congratulate you on your wins," I said, tossing the vodka cap at him. "How many was it?”

He caught it neatly. "Three."

Three including Danse? But I wasn't about to betray any more interest. Cicero had no doubt seen me watching alongside Cross and all the rest.

“Wasn't easy though,” he went on. "Citadel brothers put up as good a fight as back home."

"I could say the same about your people,” I granted. "Hellfire armor or not."

The comment might have encouraged Cicero. For whatever reason, he turned to face me straight on, as if on the cusp of a decision. “Look, Elder Lyons. You probably don’t trust me. At least, not yet.”

I held a hand out for the bottle again, ignoring his quiet laugh, and untwisted the cap, one thread at a time. Lifted the bottle to my lips and watched him as I drank, showing I trusted him not to poison me with anything stronger than vodka at least.

“‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ You ever hear that one?” I recapped the bottle and put it down on the table near us.

“No,” he said. Caution had settled onto his face. Maybe I sounded more tart than I'd intended.

I waved a hand. “Some dusty old poet named Virgil. Never mind. But cut to the chase.”

“All right.” He dipped his torso in an old-fashioned, courtly bow. “I'd like to ask you to consider sending for me, Elder Lyons.”

I sucked in a quick breath to steady myself. Holy. Shit. Did he just…?

So my reply came out too fast. “What makes you think you think I'd want to?”

Fuck. I started kicking myself the second the challenge slipped from my lips, because that lazy, cat-with-a-dish-of-cream smile spread across his face. That same smile he’d given me after —

“People talk. That's all I'm saying.”

My mind spun. Had Cicero heard about Danse's reputation? Or was it just the news that I’d summoned anyone? But he couldn't throw me as easily as his opponents in the ring. I squared my shoulders, picked up the bottle, and handed it coolly back with a nod of silent-yet-implicit dismissal. "Then it's time for me to think some more about Greeks bearing gifts."

Cicero bowed again. He held it for a full second. Those eyes of his were plasma-hot when he came back up and he gave a very sincere Brotherhood salute before moving towards the door. The sound of his name stopped him, though.

“You’ve got balls, I'll give you that. Now get out of here.”

I sat with my papers for a while after that, unwilling to move in case he was loitering around in the halls. But I needed a change of scenery. The mess hall, with its constant supply of coffee, felt like it might offer a solution to the tangle of thoughts rolling around in my head. It got me carrying my armful of files over there and set up camp at one of the tables near the serving station.

The brew had been sitting for too long and was bitter. I debated asking the knights on KP to set up a fresh urn until a pair of them struggled past under the weight of a freshly-killed radturkey. They had enough to do. Besides, it was wishful thinking that coffee would get me any closer to losing fewer squads or understanding what Cicero was up to.

He knew I’d picked Danse. Everybody knew. And yet the paladin was boldly offering himself. Was he trying to replace Danse? Or fit himself — and my face felt warm — onto some kind of roster of different candidates? Shit, was that how it worked at the Foundry? I could probably ask Cross, but I wasn’t giving that woman any more grenades.

The squire picking up bloody feathers in the wake of the radturkey wranglers turned out to be Arthur. When he saw me, he saluted with the fist that wasn’t full of bedraggled quills. “Elder Lyons.”

“Squire Maxson,” I replied in kind. He was looking a little sunburnt after spending the afternoon without his field cap on. “How was your half-day?”

“Very good, ma’am. I hung on the longest in the armor challenge. Longest out of C-dorm anyway.”

It was a Citadel tradition to see who could dangle longest from the outstretched arms of a T-45. I’d seen Dawes rising up earlier in the day, his suit laden with squires who clung until they dropped like overripe mutfruit.

“That’s what sticking to your training will get you. Keep it up, Squire.”

“Plus I bet on Paladin Cicero. He won three matches.”

I caught myself before reacting. Of course he’d bet against Danse, his rival for my time. "Then you made some good bets." I went back to the Senna file only to look up again when Arthur lingered.

“Ma’am? I have, um, a tactical question.”

“Go ahead,” I encouraged him, wondering why he was asking me and not one of his instructors.

“If someone’s being disrespectful. Not to me, but to … another brother or sister. How do I stop it?”

 _You take that back!_ echoed out of a radio speaker in my mind. “Is the disrespectful person another squire?”

“Yes.”

I balanced my chin on a set of knuckles, leaning into the question. “Then you don’t.”

“Ma’am?” Arthur sent an eyebrow soaring.

“You can’t stop disrespectful behavior. You can only convince those who do it it’s not in their best interests.”

He gave me a careful nod, turning that over. “How do I do that?”

“Using words is the best way. Have you got those three voices down?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then tell me which one you’d use here. Codex-quoting, reading to a sick friend, or addressing everyone in in the mess?”

“Codex,” he said without missing a beat. “It even says, ‘Be the weld that bonds steel, not the blow that breaks it.’ Or —“

“Except a disrespectful squire has already forgotten the Codex. Shaming them could make the situation worse.”

“But they should listen to the Founder’s words.”

“Of course they should. And maybe someday, when you have subordinates, a reminder will be enough.“ A crash echoed out of the kitchen. Everyone wiping tables, mopping floors, and toting supplies back and forth paused. When no yelling or ghoulified radturkeys followed, life went back to normal.

"What you need to do for now,” I told him, "is help redirect feelings. Your softer voice is best for that.”

Pursed lips swept from one side to the other as Arthur considered this. He let them down long enough to say, “But they’re not sick.”

“Only lost. And if you choose your words carefully and say them just right, it could bring them back again. To the Codex and to us.”

Arthur mulled this over. He took so long thinking about it that he actually went to deposit the bloodied, broken feathers in a nearby waste bin and brushed his hands off on his uniform. Those sleeves really were too short. Plus the cuffs were completely frayed. I made a mental note to have Dawes or Faris re-measure the fastest-growing squires and have new uniforms made for them.

“How do I know what to say?”

“That's the hardest part,” I counseled, pleased to be of use in this minor battle at least. “Sometimes there’s nothing to say. It's best to leave the situation alone. Whatever’s best for the Order.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, his brow still furrowed. “I’ll think about how to do that.”

“Good man. Now see if you can get off of Scribe Teagan’s workforce.”

Arthur’s cheeks went pinker than his sunburn could account for. “You know about that?”

“The Citadel is small, Squire. And, as you know, there are more eyes on some of us than others.”

Still blushing, he saluted again. “Ma’am.”

I sighed, watching his gangly frame move off in search of more feathers. Someone actually had put on another urn of coffee on during our little interview. I took a fresh cup back to the solar along with my wandering stack of files, only to find Danse sitting on one of the couches looking sheepish as hell when I came in. He closed the book he was reading and and rattled up off his folding chair into a startled kind of salute.

“You can cut down on protocol when we’re alone in here.” I waved him back down and put the files on a table near A History of West Tek Industries, the book I'd been trying to finish for ages. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“The Sino-American Question,” he said, showing me the title. “I’m sorry. I was working and the title sucked me in.”

“This cataloguing is a non-essential duty, Knight. Why aren’t you off with the group that went to Rivet City?”

“It’s quieter here,” he said. But there was a heaviness in Danse that ran a warning flag up an invisible pole behind his head.

My arms pretty much folded themselves. “Thought I told you to report any more incidents to Krieg.”

Rad-doe-in-the-headlight eyes showed for just a moment before regular human eyes returned. “Honestly, ma’am, it’s too minor to even talk about.”

I wasn’t buying it. “How many of your Krieg-kappa took the trip?

“Paladin Krieg is still here, I think.”

Taking a page out of my own advice to Arthur, I kept my voice light and even, while feeling anything but. “The others wouldn't leave you here by yourself. Not after that mole rat incident. So what did you tell them?”

I waited for Danse to say more, but nothing happened. So I turned the screws. “Do I need to have Krieg get it out of them later?”

“Ma’am,” he looked helpless. “This isn’t their fight.”

It gut-punched me. Heads would roll if anyone laid a finger on Danse, but whoever was against him knew they could threaten his wasteland-born brothers and sisters. I didn’t have to push Danse any harder to know that whatever rat-fucks wanted to punish Danse by keeping him away from Rivet City had threatened his squad.

One instinct told me to remind Danse he could back out of our arrangement. Hell, replacements were already starting to come out of the fucking masonry. I squeezed my eyes shut and made an irritated sound. Why couldn’t I get Cicero’s face out of my head?

When I opened them again, Danse was watching me, brows pinched together.

I crossed to where he was sitting and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“I’m fine.”

He was so goddamn stubborn. I took an even deeper breath.

“Listen to me. It’s not worth you sitting here, miserable and alone, just because we're fucking.”

“Elder Lyons.” He had the temerity to stand up. I narrowed my eyes and glared up at him. He swallowed nervously, but didn’t budge. “They won’t respect me if I run away from a fight.”

I bit back the retort I had ready. Goddammit, he was right. Krieg made Danse out to be officer material and I was starting to see why. So the air went out of me and the fight went with it. Not like I could fault Danse for his dedication to this particular cause, anyway.

“You’re good and dug in aren’t you?”

He only smiled. It wasn’t cocky, redheaded smile, but damned if I didn’t want to reward it.

“Not sure if I can make up for Rivet City," I said, my insides already stirring. "Want to find out?"

Maybe rolling around on my wide bed should have been as far as it went. Maybe teaching him how to go down on me was the wrong level of responsibility for my sad and tired brain.

Because by the time I finished getting our clothes off, squiggling into place, and patiently adjusting his technique, I was too far into my own head. Maybe that was why I got stuck hauling him regretfully back up after what felt like half an hour of no fireworks. Maybe that was why I had to explain it wasn’t him, which just got me a look that said I had to be kidding.

What finally sank us might have been those knocks at the outer door as I was bringing him off with eager hands and the meaty part of my thighs. Because then, instead reveling in the half-victory, Danse seemed even more confused and guilty than before, leaving me starting to think that out of all my problems in the vast and dangerous Capital Wasteland, this strange tradition might be the most complicated one of all.

*

Krieg-theta and kappa left in search of new Metro tunnels the next day. Days passed in radio silence. I could only hope it was because, as Artemis reassured me, that the squads were underground. Even with the auxiliary radio tower we’d erected at Adams, signals couldn’t penetrate tons of concrete and dirt.

Day one was all right. Day two stated to unsettle me. This morning? Deathclaw in a cage. And so I took my third cup of coffee to the ruins of the highest level. Pointed myself towards the Potomac. Took a long sip, closed my eyes, and reminded myself that Krieg was a veteran with decades of combat experience.

Mentally, I walked through the op, as if I were still with the Pride starting with the descent into the darkness of the Adams Metro station. Headlamps on, people. Glade, Kodiak, sweep that tunnel. Clear? Ok, move out.

I felt the weight of my armor pulverizing concrete chunks beneath me. The mic in my helmet picked up the delicate sound of glass breaking. Then the enraged snarl of a pack of ferals, disturbed from their centuries of mindless wandering. I brought my rifle up, pulled the trigger, watched the nearest ghoul disintegrate. It had been wearing the remnants of a U.S. Postal Service uniform. Maybe the satchel slung around its shoulder still held undelivered mail.

Back in the real world, the footsteps behind me didn't belong to Vargas or Gallows. Still, they were as familiar.

“Good morning, Abigail.”

Dark tunnels and bright laser bolts retreated. The focus I could only achieve during field ops faded, and I was left faced with reality as cold and bitter as the dregs of coffee in my nearly empty cup. I drank the last swallow anyway and waited for Cross to speak. She’d sought me out for a reason, and I wasn’t in a hurry or the mood to find out what.

“We need you in the Lab.” Her tone said they needed me yesterday.

Shit. Rothchild. It had to be.

And it was. By the time I arrived, out of breath from scrambling down from the top to the bottom of the Citadel in double-time, he was surrounded by a triple-ring of scribes with outstretched arms and expressions that ranged from shocked to fearful. Across the room, I caught sight of Jameson’s white face. She gave a tight nod when she saw me and let out a sharp whistle. The scribes began to back slowly away.

Hearing Rothchild chilled me. He was raving about Prime, something missing. But seeing him was worse. He was so agitated, flecks of spittle sprayed outwards.

“Reginald!” The ring of my voice might have gotten eve Spot the behemoth's attention, yet Rothchild continued to sputter. As the Scribes melted further away, I could see papers and tools littering the floor. I eyed the arm-length spanner clenched in Rothchild’s hand and knew I had to defuse the situation.

I softened my tone and aimed for a touch of Cross’s dry humor. “What on earth is going on here? It sounds like the Second Great War.”

At that, Rothchild puffed himself upright and looked down his hawkish nose. “Sentinel Lyons, I’m so relieved you’re here. Someone has stolen Prime’s CPU! I demand to speak with Owyn!”

My guts clenched with dread.

I hoped he didn’t notice the tremor in my hand as I reached out to touch his shoulder in reassurance. “Reginald, Father is … unavailable. What can I do to help? I’m sure the CPU is nearby and safe.”

During all the ruckus, someone had the presence of mind to summon the new medic, Knight Sergeant Cade, who ducked his shoulder and pushed his way through the crowd with no regard for ribs, toes, or rank. I saw the silver wink of a hypodermic in his hand, and when he nodded at me, I grasped Rothchild’s arm so Cade could administer the sedative, as smoothly as if we’d practiced the maneuver a dozen times.

The spanner wrench clattered to the floor and Cade caught Rothchild with deft hands when he began to slump. Slinging his other limp arm around my shoulders, we half-carried him to the corner of the room where more of the knights Cade was training waited with a canvas stretcher. Scribe Bowditch, his dark face drawn with worry, had come up to stand at my side as they picked Reginald up and carried him from the Lab.

"Elder, there was no warning. One moment we were going over the data on new salvage locations. The ones he kept bringing up were all tapped out years ago. Ma'am I accept full responsibility for this. I'll have everyone take more care with what they say. "

I took a deep breath, then another. My stomach was churning and my head felt like it was about to burst. This was harder than combat. So much harder. But it was my job alone.

“Bowditch, you’re Head Scribe until further notice. Tell your people," I said, under my breath. And then, in my mess hall voice I snapped. “Somebody clean this shit up!”

Then I whirled around and stalked towards the exit before anyone could see how upset — no, heartbroken — I truly was.


	11. Chapter 11

So much paper built up in the Great Hall over the next several hours, it started to feel like the solar of a few weeks ago, even though this room was also full of territorial scribes, ruffling their fur or feathers or whatever the hell they had.

Bowditch hadn’t been assisting Rothchild long enough for Vallincourt to take his promotion easily. It meant she postured. She fumed. Any other scribe who stood to gain something by backing her did so, steering us into a war of factions instead of the reassignment of a few key personnel.

It was always hard working with scribes. Discontent in the military arm of the Brotherhood worked itself up through the proper channels because soldiers were fundamentally like the dogs we kept for tracking. Scribes, on the other hand, were like the cats that kept the Citadel’s storerooms roach-free. I’d see them now and again, creeping through the dark and dusty places where they did their best work, or sunning themselves on high ledges and glaring down with exaggerated feelings of self-importance.

This catlike nature of scribes resulted in all of us having to listen to Vallincourt for hours of what seemed to me like ridiculous details. My impatience only grew when a squire slipped in during the proceedings with a whispered message that Krieg was back.

Agreeing to a few concessions got me the hell out of there, although I suspected the main part of this war still needed be waged. Meanwhile, everything on today’s scheduled had slipped. But I needed to hear Krieg’s report ASAP. 

I crossed the bailey, head down against the drizzle, to the repair bay. The smell of lubricants and the whir of buffing discs had me feeling instantly, powerfully nostalgic.

“Check the optics when you get a chance,” Krieg was saying to his mechanic, turning to me as I approached. “Elder Lyons.”

“What do you have for me, Paladin?”

My loyal supporter passed a hand over his bald and shining skull with his eyes cast down. Mentally, I swore and braced myself for yet more bad news.

“Not much, I’m afraid. Just a new Metro station.”

He let that hang in the air for a second.

“You bastard!” I cried, punching Krieg solidly in the shoulder. It was technically a public display of affection, forbidden by the Codex, but no one was going to call me on it.

Krieg’s fake-serious look had already slipped off his apple cheeks to give way to pure mischief. “Medic!” he shouted, holding his arm.

“Which station?” I urged, hanging onto his wrist like an over-excited squire.

“North Potomac. Exactly where the transit computer said it would be.”

A keen sense of victory flooded me with the shivery jolt of adrenaline I’d been craving all these months. “Fuck yes!” I shouted with a clenched fist. Some nearby knights looked my way, including the one working on Krieg’s armor. Surprisingly, it was Danse.

“He’s good with mechanical systems,” Krieg said offhandedly, having followed my eyes. “And I like staying alive.”

I coughed to keep from laughing. “North Potomac, incredible. Where’d you find it?”

“Underneath an overpass.” He smacked his palms together to indicate the station entrance had been squashed flat. “We entered through Northwest Seneca Station. It’s no wonder nobody’d found the tunnel access point. It was hidden behind a train. That bunch over there —“ he jerked his chin at some of the others. “— teamed up and manhandled the car down the track just far enough to gain entrance.”

I beamed. “You've all earned some beer with your chow tonight. Bring delta to the solar tonight. Kappa tomorrow.”

The Gwinnett would be enough to boost morale. But I wanted to see the looks on their faces when the first fish of the season arrived piping hot. Rivet City had come through the winter in good shape and their first trade shipment had arrived this morning. 

"Roger that," said Krieg with appreciation.

“What else?” I could barely keep from dancing.

He gave me that shrug-of-the-eyebrows common among the older set. It came from rarely being out of power armor. “Half of it's flooded. Lurks upon lurks, so we'll have some major clean up to do.”

The ear-splitting chatter of a hydraulic impact wrench interrupted our conversation, and Krieg turned his head towards the noise. It was as good an opportunity as any — I flicked my eyes sideways towards Krieg’s armor. Danse was carefully inspecting the fusion core housing for any damage. My own fusion core housing gave a little hello at the sight. Seemed like all I needed was some good news to fire up my libido again. That and the sight of one mechanic running his long, well-shaped fingers around.

“Paladin Krieg,” Danse said, unaware of my wandering eyes, “come take a look at this.”

He stepped off the front footplate on the power armor repair station and balanced on the back one so that Krieg could hoist himself up.

“Ah, hell. The integrity's compromised.”

“Which plate?” I asked.

“The pauldron,” Krieg grunted and eased himself back down again. “That weld isn’t holding. One more good whack with a sledge and it's done for.”

“Then replace it,” I said and scowled at Krieg’s look. “And don’t care if they’re in short supply. I’m not having my best go out with compromised gear. Tell Durga I authorized it if she gives you grief.”

It was a fact of life that no one, not even the West, could manufacture new power armor. But it was a sore spot that we couldn’t even maintain our stronger, more agile T-51s way out here in the East. The rigs Father and his cohort had worn on their trip across the continent, with their double-walled pauldrons and neatly housed components, had been mothballed years ago. When the shoulders of our T-45s wore down like this, or when mud and sand and every kind of biological sludge got into the exposed circuits and mechanical wells, I gritted my teeth at the brothers and sisters out West who’d decided settlers -- and the Citadel -- were worthless. 

“Would you ever run a Hellfire unit?” I asked Krieg, shifting my stance both to gauge his reaction and in an effort to keep from staring at Danse’s ass. It really was outstanding. 

Krieg gave me a half-smile, “Sounds like Cicero’s been after you, too.”

He didn't know the half. Or maybe he did. Regardless, we were talking about power armor. “Who else has he been hounding?”

“Anyone who sits down for five minutes. He’s convinced Hellfire is the way to go.”

Danse’s wrench made harsh revving sounds as Krieg’s shoulder plate came off. It had me imagining distracting bulges even though there were none in my field of view.

“I’m not convinced,” I said. “Sure the thermal resistance is better, but they don’t take rads as well. Which is our number one problem with patrols. They keep coming back needing blood cleanses.”

Krieg jerked his beard towards the yellow racks. “Plus the repairs. Anytime a Hellfire suit went out we’d have to fly it back to Adams. Or drag a bunch of that diagnostic equipment over here and cut down in the racks we use for T-45s.”

“I’ve wondered about digging through to some of the Citadel’s outer rings,” I scratched the back of my neck, “maybe build a bigger repair bay. But it would be a massive project.”

With the sarcasm I would tolerate in few others, Krieg said, “With all your free time, you could just do it yourself.”

I gave him a twist of my lips. “I’ll get right on that. In the meantime, just how persistent is our friend Cicero?”

Scanning the room still let me catch Krieg pass a hand over his baldness out of the corner of my eye. “Damn persistent, but he might be onto something. If our Shield scribes could work on the rad resistance, those stronger suits might just balance out the need for repairs”

I sighed and looked back over at Danse, who was stepping down with Krieg’s massive armor plate in his hands. “Maybe so.”

Krieg gave a nod and leaned wearily away from me to stretch his lower back. Instantly, I felt ashamed. Krieg still had hours of checks and paperwork ahead of him. “Eat and get some rest, Paladin. That’s an order.” Straight-faced, I added, “Durga won’t part with a pauldron unless I’m right there to sign the requisition anyway.”

“Copy,” he said with a salute and moved off down the line. I knew Krieg wouldn’t take a break until he knew the status of every soldier in his unit. Still, my order meant he might take a break before writing his field report.

“Come on, Danse. And bring that hunk of junk with you.”

The easiest way to carry a pauldron was balanced on one shoulder. As Danse swung it up and fell in beside me I could tell he already had the knack.

“Have you been Krieg’s mechanic for long?” I asked as we moved back into the courtyard. The rain was heavier now and I turned up the collar of my coat.

“Only since Founder’s Day,” he said. The mid-winter festival was our biggest celebration of the year.

“You must be top-notch. He wouldn’t trust that to just anyone.”

“I like learning about systems,” he said with Danse-like modesty.

I detected a whiff of a double meaning, though. “You’re a quick study, that’s for sure. Which reminds me, do you have any free time coming up?” As I held the door to the lab open for Danse, I gave him a look that would ensure he understood my meaning.

“I’m, uh, still on mechanic duty tonight,” he said carefully, pinking up nicely as his voice took on that extra layer of velvet and his eyes held mine. “If you need me to change it, I can.”

“No, that’s all right,” I said, keeping the disappointment out of my voice. “We can always catch up later.”

“Or, um, earlier,” he said.

My eyebrow and I leaned Danse’s way as a thrill ran straight down my centerline. “Carry on with taking the initiative, Knight. I approve.”

I let that vertibird of a statement follow us all the way down to the lab where I checked in with Bowditch to see how everyone was doing and listened with more patience than usual to Durga’s complaints. I made sure not to sign off on the new shoulder armor until just before Danse and I left, leaving the old component among the scrap that would go to the smelter. My core temp felt about as high at that moment.

As we crossed the bailey again, it was a minor miracle that the raindrops weren’t steaming as they struck my face. Danse’s arm was curled up to hold the new pauldron in place on his shoulder, highlighting the beautiful lines of his back.

"I should attach this.” he said, as we approached the rack where Krieg's suit stood waiting. The long room had become much quieter now, most everyone having stampeded away for the first lunch of our newly-provisioned mess hall.

I spied the supervisor, Knight Sergeant Ingram, locking up her office, nodding at us as she also left for the noon meal. I nodded back, hoping my bright idea wasn't written all over my face.

"Of course you should," I said, my voice low enough to be all for him. Like the rest of me. "And when you're done, I'll be over there."

It took maybe three minutes. Long enough for me to use the skeleton key from my hip pocket to slip into the room. Long enough to stack every sheaf of paper on Ingram’s wide metal desk at right angles to every other and hide the tiered stack on the floor underneath. Getting away with this depended on putting everything back exactly the way it I'd found it.

Danse might have a future in intelligence, too, from the way he looked around as he was locking the door carefully behind us. His hair was damp from the rain. His lips, once I'd sat him down on the desk and climbed onto his wide and wonderful lap, were as fevered as mine. My nipples under the suit must have been hard because found them right away and tweaked them in between massaging soft palmfuls.

"Fuck, yes." I hissed and rutted against a cock that he got hard for me in two, three pushes? I wasn't sure I could count higher than that. 

"Did you touch yourself?" he whispered into my ear. His other hand was on my ass now. One finger along the crack of it, helping to grind me closer.

"What’s that?” I pulled back enough to see his face and show the grin on mine.

When our eyes met he hesitated. He wasn't quite comfortable with this yet and yet he went on despite. "After last time."

Nothing that sexy. Unable to get off when we were together, I’d tossed, turned, and then fallen into an uneasy sleep full of vague and unsettling dreams. But Danse didn’t need to know that. My fingers slid through his damp hair, caressing and stroking with silent approval. I was going to reward the hell out of this particular case of initiative.

Right next to his ear, I licked my lips and swallowed, knowing he’d hear the tiny, wet sounds. “The next morning. In the shower.” 

He heard, all right. He grunted deep in his chest and added a second hand to my ass, pulling me flush against him for a slow grind. I didn’t have to fake the shudder that rippled through me, and there was no way I could’ve faked the wave of prickly gooseflesh that started at the nape of my neck and ran down my spine.

“The bar of soap was half-gone, just the perfect size. I leaned back against the wall, and spread my legs wide. It was slippery. Like your tongue,” I breathed unsteadily.

“That’s —,” he was working at unbuckling my collar. With not the steadiest fingers. “That’s good.”

“When you put the flat of it right up against my clit before you sucked. That was good, too.”

“I should … try that again then.” Halfway though his sentence my collar came loose and he peeled it back to find my neck. He scraped his teeth along it, hauling a sweet shudder out of me.

“You should,” I said and kissed him until he groaned into my mouth.

He leaned backwards with a searching look and a hand on my neck that he let slide down the front of me. “How about now?”

I bit my lip. Fuck, this man was learning. And it was bringing out my competitive edge. I’d be damned if I didn’t leave his brain just as ragged as mine. “All right. But first I’ll finish my story."

I reached between us and started unsnapping his fly, moving his underwear aside. Danse was hot and silky in my hand, rising out of the wiry thatch of his hair like that big obelisk in the center of town, rosy with first light of morning. The only light in here came from the humming fluorescents. He looked beautiful anyway.

With a spit-slick palm, I gave him two tight strokes. It kind of shorted out his brain for a second. He threw his head back with the intensity of the feeling and clunked it into the desk. The impact came through in his gritted teeth, although he stayed hard the whole time.

“Careful,” I teased and gave him another stroke, taking my weight up with my other hand and my knees. It was a good thing our uniforms had padding there. 

“I’m listening,” he said, with a look that was way too innocent for the tone of his voice. He'd started unsnapping the same key part of my contact suit. 

My thumb passed over the slit at the tip of his cock. Everything underneath me, including the marble in my hand jerked in response. “I thought of you kneeling in front of me. You put one of my legs over your shoulder and started licking me in Morse code. Short-short-long. Long-short-long. What were you saying down there?”

Just then, the last snap on my uniform came free. Tristan delved into my underwear. I held my breath, dropped my forehead down, and went still.

“I was saying …” The big pads of his fingers made contact with my slick and smeared it all around. “I was saying I’d make you … come.” He hesitated before the dirty word but pushed through. He also tried to move my body up at that point, maybe to do that very thing. But I liked my knight trying to think and speak and keep stroking me at the same time as he was getting his crank handled. It wasn’t the easiest mission I’d ever assigned. 

“That’s right. So turned around. Bent over with my hands on the wall. Or maybe I got on all fours…” I ground into Tristan’s fingers and gave him a rough pump to match. “And then?”

"And then I'd, ohh dammit Sarah," he swore and lifted me -- I had no idea he was that strong -- until I was straddling his face. Danse mumbled something between my legs that felt incredible, but I was too worried about falling off the far edge of the desk if I leaned even slightly forward.

"Wait," I said and climbed awkwardly down only to hop back on facing the other way. "Then what?"

Danse's warm breath touched me more intimately than ever. "I said I'd fuck you."

"Ohh," I said as he drew me down a second time.

“Mm-hmph hmph,” he said. 

It took willpower, real fucking willpower, to lift myself off of his face again. “What was that?” 

Danse took the moment to lick a hot stripe across the crease of my thigh. “Until you screamed.”

Hard, implacable hands gripped my thighs and urged me back down. On their own, my hips started to dance when he started back in with the Morse code. I knew what he was saying, this time. And this time, I’d cooperate because, fuck. That tongue of his. And because he’d called me Sarah. Not Elder or ma’am. I had to brace my palms against the desk on either side of his stomach when he started suckling. Had to bite my finger when he spread me open with his thumbs and started lapping in earnest.

Fuck. Yes.

But then, with deliberate slowness, I leaned forward. Losing contact with his tongue was a necessary evil, but I wanted him to focus on the first long-long stroke of my tongue.

Danse swore. Still hard, his dick leapt at me, so that its mushroom cap tapped me in the neck, leaving a wet spot and making me smile as I lifted his balls out and cradled them. He smelled phenomenal. All musky-sweet over a grassy note of damp fabric. 

“Oh, you like that,” I said and pushed my tongue against his slit before seeing how much more of him I could take with my throat extended.

He groaned again and kneaded my ass as I savored how thick he was. It didn’t take my jaw long to start aching though. I was out of practice. I massaged his sack a little to make up for it. I felt the way Danse rolled his head back and forth at the contact.

“Wait, can we …” he pulled me back towards his mouth. I was okay with giving up some of him to get more of that amazing tongue. Turned out his cock was long enough that I could still suck while he lapped, I hadn’t counted on that. A bolt of energy slammed through me from clit to throat when I realized how fucking perfect that was.

We got into a rhythm. It was anything but settling in. More like gaining the energy for harmonics. Two waves synching up and pulsing together with just the right beat to shake everything loose. I could already feel myself climbing. Then his finger found its way inside of me, exploring from this new, exciting angle and I moaned around his shaft. The vibration made Danse’s balls tighten in my hand, so of course I did it again. Not without reason, either. His finger was curling and plunging as my needy, greedy insides clamped down around it, and he groaned into me, passing the vibration back. 

It was pure, perfect, carnal synergy. But. I was damned if I was going to come before he did. Even though he was doing great, I was the one with the experienced tongue. And hands.

One of those cupped and drew his balls up. The other found the sweet spot behind his sack, the ridge that connected the back door to the front knocker. It was tricky to manage while balancing on wobbly knees and numb elbows, but yeah, I wouldn't fall, even if the way he was stroking every part of my clit was making it hard as fuck to do anything but collapse on top of him. 

The first prod with my middle finger bucked his hips right off the desk. It shoved his cock right down my throat. I took hold of the base and held him in the back of my throat for a silent count of three.

Yessss. He shuddered like an earthquake underneath me. Adding a second finger to his taint made the vein at the base of his cock pulse underneath them.

It was the best feeling when Danse muffled himself in my muff. He pressed a sharp, falling moan into it and dug his fingers hard into my ass cheeks, ragged breathing telling the story of his triumph almost as well as what I drank down.

“Sarah,” he said, and the way he swallowed past my name, like it was almost too much of an effort to say anything, just added to the thrill of getting him off so decisively. “That was —“

“Don’t stop, I warned, resting comfortably against Danse with his balls still in my hand.

He went after me with vigorous lick-sucking, going kind of overboard. I had to tell him to slow down but then, not two minutes later, I was riding that beam of pure heat that shone out from between my legs the moment I hit that peak. Every moment gave me another delirious pulse, all jumbled together near the end and fading into a cosy twilight.

It was a damn effort to peel myself off of Danse before impressions from his uniform wound up on my face. That wouldn’t sit well with anyone except whoever wanted cheap laughs, and steel knew there were plenty of those. With some snaps and rustling, we got ourselves back in order. I wound up standing between Danse’s knees at the end of the desk. He still sat there, looking disheveled and gorgeous.

With that space between us, it seemed relatively safe to reach up and finger comb his hair back into order for him. Fix the twist in his collar and fasten the snap he’d missed near his left hip bone. I brushed my hands over my hips, double checked that I was all squared away. Ponytail, retightened. Face — I ran my palm over my chin to make sure all evidence was gone. Pushing my shoulders back I asked, “Presentable?”

That warm light in his eyes was for me alone. He tilted his head. “Beautiful.”

Okay. That made my heart stutter. I closed my eyes and drew in an even, calming breath.

“Sarah?”

Shit. Now I’d made Danse unsure of himself again. I opened my eyes, and despite my better judgment, reached up and rested my hand over his heart.

“Say my name one more time.”

He leaned forward to fill the space between us. His hands cupped my jaw and tilted my face up. Dark eyes intent on mine, he murmured my name as requested.

There went my heart again.

“Now. My title.”

A frown dented his forehead, but he complied. “Elder Lyons,” he said straightening.

His hands fell away then, and I resented their loss, but it had to happen this way.

Still, I made my voice soft for him. “Thank you for the assistance in filling out the paperwork for Paladin Krieg’s armor repair. I’ll take it from here.”


	12. Chapter 12

I didn’t appreciate the way Arthur kept looking distractedly around the solar, his eyes on everything except me and the book in his hands. He’d been late for recitation to begin with and now, to top it off, he kept wrinkling his nose.

“What’s distracting you, Squire?”

“It smells like fried things.”  

Rubbing a temple with one careful finger, I counseled myself to be patient. “That’s because Paladin Krieg and his knights had dinner with me. Fish and tatos and beer.”

“The mess didn’t have that,” Maxson borderline-complained.

“It was a reward. Krieg and his squads uncovered a critical asset yesterday.”

But the squire appeared uninterested in my explanation. He was scanning the newest row of books Danse was making on one of the nearby shelves.

“Eyes on the page,” I reminded him, lowering mine to a crude map that a knight from Krieg-delta had hastily copied from M.A.R.Go.T.’s displays. “And words in your mouth.”

Squire Maxson heaved a sigh and somehow, in the intervening second, made himself statesmanlike with straighter posture and a deeper, fuller tone. “We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy?”

“Policy,” I demonstrated. “Let your voice drop at the end, even though it's a question. It'll sound stronger.”

“What is our policy?” Arthur repeated with the new intonation. His voice cracked, but that didn’t matter. He had the idea. “I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tie-ranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. This is our policy.”

“Fine. Only tyranny doesn’t sound like tyrant.”

“Why not?” he groused.

I lifted my brows in another armored version of a shrug. “Because English is like that.”

But Arthur was sneaking looks at the bookshelves again. Or was it Danse? No, that was me trying to avoid doing the same.

“Listen, since you have so much energy today, we’re going to try something new. I want you to start moving around as if you were giving this speech in real life.”

An almost-defiant look came my way, full of creased forehead and mouth pulled to one side. “Move how?”

“Change your stance. Use gestures. You’ve seen the old holos. What did General Chase look like when he gave the 'Power Armor Will Win This' speech at Anchorage?”

Arthur thought for a moment and then laid his book down. With hands behind his back he thrust his slender jaw out. It looked so comical on him I had to bite my lip. Then, at intervals, Arthur made broad arcs with his hands, horizontally like he was encompassing the audience and then with his palm out, to describe the majestic future that power armor would afford. It was brilliant. I’d forgotten about Maxson’s keen powers of observation.

“All right, now give me General Jingwei.”

Leaning forward, as if looming over a podium, he grasped the imaginary sides of it and nodded, sharply with a frequency of once every three or four seconds. His neck and shoulders, every muscle above his waist were full of tightly-controlled power. Arthur couldn’t see it, but Danse was looking on with surprise. He’d seen those holos just like we all had and was struck by Arthur’s ability to bring these long-dead generals to life.

“Well done. Now you need to start developing your own style. I won’t watch,” I said, and to help Arthur feel less self-conscious I added, “Knight Danse won’t either.”

“Then how will you know what I’m doing?” he said, scratching the side of his nose and looking completely adolescent once more.

“You’re just experimenting. Getting a feel for what works for you. I might glance up now and then, but don’t pay any attention to me.”

This new challenge seemed to really fire something up inside Arthur. My peripheral vision showed him trying out all kinds of new things. More importantly, the speech started to really come alive. It was as if using his body let Arthur start to really feel the sentiments he was supposed to be stirring in his listeners. I even saw Squire Maxson glance up from the pages and catch my eye sometimes, which was awkward. Every time I looked to see where Danse was, Arthur was in the way.  

Wait a minute …

But it was true. Wherever my knight happened to be, the squire stood more or less between us. And watching Arthur more closely brought about changes I wasn’t prepared for. His serious expression. The stiff way he strode around was also worlds away from his usual gait. And the way he raised both eyebrows when he got to a word he wanted to emphasize — those weren’t Arthur’s mannerisms at all.  

They were Danse’s.

“Squire,” I said, with growing unease, “don't copy anyone. Just do what feels natural.”

Ghoul-quick, every trace of the knight fell away, leaving just an apprehensive boy. “I am, ma’am. Just trying things out, like you said.”

_ Buggering brahmins _ , I thought, while staying outwardly calm. “And you’ve sent it over the walls today. But our time’s up.”

Nearly wriggling at the praise, he gave me the type of unguarded smile I hadn’t seen in weeks. “Too bad. This was fun.” 

That was when realization of what had to be going on smacked me with almost physical force.  

But I needed to be sure. “Next time we’ll start with the Hydaspes River speech. Read over it and find out what you can about when and why he gave it. And we’ll have a game of chess. You’ve earned it.”

“Heck y— I mean, thank you Elder Lyons!”  

This time his joy couldn't be contained. And my heart sank into my boots. “All right, Maxson. Dismissed.”

“Yes ma’am!”

Taking along the deep red volume of famous speeches, Arthur gave me a firm salute and made his way out the door, although I saw his gaze lingering. Which was why I had to excuse myself, find the inner room, and then lean against the closed door for a couple of minutes.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Squire Maxson wasn't self-conscious. He was jealous.

Crossing my arms over the top of my head, I sighed. It seemed ironic that I’d given Maxson an assignment based on Alexander the Great. Alexander, who’d conquered some four percent of the world. I could barely keep four fucking city blocks under control, let alone one love-struck squire.

Sighing, I resolved to christen the next available vertibird Xiphos. 

The question of what to do about Arthur was never completely off my mind over the next few days, especially after our chess game wound up being awkward as hell. Not because he behaved any differently. The problem was me. Being tuned into his over-attentiveness made me want to kick myself for how blind I’d been.

Ending my work with Maxson was a non-starter. He was too talented and I’d invested too much time in him already. But I couldn’t get rid of the idea that I was encouraging him in some unhealthy way. Dammit, why hadn't I seen it that day in the bailey, as he waited for Cross and I to approach. Or the thousand and first time she'd called him my suitor. I’d thought it was just Cross's penchant for ribbing me, but she’d seen it before I had.

Unable to find an easy fix, I slotted the new problem in among my thousand and one. Even a sultan’s wife couldn’t keep them all in her head at once, so I kept turning them over. 

With Danse on evening patrols the following week, I started spending evenings in the Great Hall to take care of business that kept spilling over from the day. There were staff to consult. Ops to plan. Reports to read and maps to scour. To top it off, there were still critical supplies to source after Spot had laid waste to that fully-loaded caravan. What it was about the GNR plaza that attracted behemoths, I had no idea, but everyone who traded with us had orders to avoid that area from now on.

The monstrosity’s latest disappearance had even Gallows looking a little perturbed

“Are the lancers playing pranks on us?” I said the night Irving met me at my sniper-safe position atop the Citadel’s walls. “Maybe they airlift the thing in and out when we’re not looking.”

The river was quiet that night. Now and again, I could see glowing mirelurks crabbing around in the shallows. We'd have to do another extermination run soon.

“I wish that was true,” he said with a slow shake of his head. His black uniform and dark complexion made it hard to pick my head of intelligence out of the shadows. He might as well be using his Stealth Boy for all anybody coming up here could see.

“Got any good news?”

“The best I can say is we haven’t heard much from the Enclave remnants, though I still think we haven’t seen the last of them. But Talon Company hasn’t budged and mutants have moved back into that camp west of Anacostia.

“Wonderful,” I said with a grimace. “What’s about Adams?”

“Well, the water’s not tainted anymore.” Here I snorted over the wall. “But those Worshippers, as you call them, have a presence over there. One group of lancers in particular looks like trouble. I’ll have to train a new scout to have any hope of figuring out what they’re up to.”

“Do it,” I said. “I don’t trust those bastards for one second.”

“Will do. Is there anything else?”

I struggled not to say anything, I really did, but it was bugging the ever-loving shit out of me. Something straight from the head of Lyons' Pride. “There was an action against Danse the other day. A group had him cornered. Vargas lucked by and put a stop to it. No physical harassment, but taunting."

"My people knew." Gallows was watching me carefully. “Wasn't going to mention it unless it got to the level of the mole rat incident. But Danse is getting more heat than any group of initiates since I can remember. They're still on him for being a wastelander. Not fit for the Citadel, that sort of thing. ”

Strands of hair were tickling my cheek in the most irritating way, and I brushed them abruptly back. “Exactly. Attending me or not, this should be over by now.”

”Everyone I have on it says there’s no reason. Danse does his work, helps others, hasn’t said a word about you.”

“Sounds like someone’s being very careful,” I told the air and the river.

“You’re right. Which means we have to be.”

The silence that grew between us meant that Gallows had nothing more to say. “Stay on this,” I ordered, even though I knew he would.

I crunched down the stairs in more of a mood than when I’d gone up.  And said mood didn’t improve when cigarette smoke wafted into my nostrils. I came to a halt, gathered myself for a blistering dressing-down, but then took a deep, calming breath. The smoker was outside and likely off-duty. There was no need to take my anger out on—

“He smiled at me, you know.”

And, fuck. Whoever this wistful voice belonged to, she didn’t need a bitchy Elder stomping through the middle of a personal conversation. I looked around for an alternate route and found none. This set of stairs descended along the inner bailey wall. All other paths were either blocked by debris or were being mountain-goated over by Gallows on his way to overhearing anything else that he could.

“Who?” This voice, also feminine. I had two choices: head back up to the wall or wait them out. The second was more appealing. I'd been in plenty of trouble for listening from behind anything bigger than a filing cabinet as a squire, and the urge wasn’t completely out of me.

“You know who.” More smoke floated by, causing me to wrinkle my nose in distaste. 

The second voice lilted upwards. “Oh? And where did you run into Knight Danse, Scribe?”

Surprised wasn’t even the word. I peered around broken concrete and rebar. Risky, but I had to catch a glimpse of these two. It was dark enough, and there was no fucking way I was leaving now.

“The other day,” The cherry of a cigarette glowed, briefly illuminating Scribe Mayak’s profile. “He was coming out of Ingram’s office. He blushed when he saw me, then he ducked his head and, oh my god, he smiled. D’you think...” she trailed off with a sigh.

Mayak, one of Jameson’s scribes, had come over in the fall with Cicero's group. I kept seeing her with Scribe Messer from Peabody’s department. Ten to one the other voice belonged to her.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up. He can do what he wants, but you know he won’t be doing much besides the Elder right now.”

Mayak sighed. “I know, I know.” The glowing butt of the cigarette dropped and was ground into darkness. Her voice perked back up. “But maybe she'll take on a few more. Elder O’Leary back at the Foundry has five regulars. Two at a time, sometimes. Plus, he tries out anyone new at least once or twice.”

Whatever Messer’s response was, it was swallowed up by the roar in my ears. Five? Two? New? What the fried fuck was going on in the Midwest?

I heard nothing more as the scribes moved off, still conspiring in low voices. My objective was suddenly the Archives, more specifically, the head of them.

The biggest file storage room near the mainframes was where I could reliably find Jameson in the evenings. She sat with a chatty group, patching uniforms like they were part of some Medieval guild. Their sewing circle amassed plenty of caps in return for its valuable mending skills.

"I have a favor to ask," I said, once she'd brushed the lint off her robes and joined me in the hall. "The attending records for past Elders. Not from here, but everywhere else. Do we have them?"

"We do," Jameson said, with no beats missed. “Not from the West since the split, but I could get those on holotape from Chicago if you need them. It would just take a while to arrive overland."

“That's all right. I'll just look at what's already here."

“You can access them from the solar. I'd just have to come with you and navigate the file trees. You have to know what you’re looking for.”

"Your terminal is closer."

“Okay, then let me pull those up for you."

Efficient, and matter-of-fact, Jameson was a godsend. She'd even agreed to take on the Rothchild issue, making her scribes part of an extended "oral history project" which was basically a cover for noting down Reginald's increasingly scattered ramblings and keeping him out of the Lab. They worked in shifts, sitting with him and mostly listening.

Even though I trusted Jameson’s discretion, I still waited until she left the room to sit down. Fuck. Did I really want to open this can of worms?

_ He can do what he wants _ , Messer had said and she was right. Outside of his duties, Danse was free to pursue whoever he wanted and that included doing plenty more than just smiling at Mayak. She was attractive in an unconventional way. Her eyes were a lighter shade of blue than mine and her hair was longer than—

I stopped myself. Half the point of attending was not to get attached. Which had me wondering how far others were pushing this. What were the standards here?

I cupped my chin in my hands and leaned forward on my elbows. The file directory itself was labeled innocuously enough. The ***TOPSEC*** designation was routine on sensitive material, and the three subdirectories read only EAST, MIDWEST, and WEST.

O’Leary. I’d start with him. I tapped the arrow key down to highlight MIDWEST and pressed the enter key. Immediately I noticed extra layers of security buffering the data. A flashing cursor prompted me for a password, which took me aback. Hadn’t Jameson…

No, I realized. She’d only gotten me to the right directory. It was up to me to proceed further. Can of worms, here I come, I thought, and tapped in my personal password. A dozen or so subdirectories appeared. The cursor blinked helpfully next to the last one, O’Leary, Elder Bernard Montgomery. Holding my breath, I prodded the enter key.

Somewhat anticlimactically, I was greeted with a message that stated: Timestamp 22:41 10 Apr 2278. Elder Sarah Lyons: confirmed. Record access: documented. Okay. Now what?

Then the screen bloomed with entries, so many that my eyes widened in disbelief. Every date had a name, rank, and designation attached. Some names appeared only once, but others came back plenty of times. Cicero wasn't listed, but Mayak was, and so were most of the personnel who had come over with them.  

“Scribe Jameson?” I heard from the outer office. A fiery crop of hair belonging to none other than Cicero himself poked itself around the corner. “Oh, sorry Elder. I saw the light on and I thought she was in here. You’re working late.”

“I could say the same,” came my answer -- more guarded than maybe it should have been. “Or were you here to get in on her sewing circle?”

Cicero smiled. A nearly vertical scar on his chin was more obvious now that he’d trimmed down the scruff along his jawline. It suited Cicero a lot better than Faris. “You're right. I was just coming to see if she could print out some T-51 schematics.”

“I think 'guilty' is the phrase you were looking for."

He acknowledged this through line with a more lopsided version of his smile. “Don’t tell anyone. My rep is on the line.”

I doubted that. Propped up in the doorway, Cicero could have been a dictionary entry for ‘at ease’. He wore the Hellfire version of his contact suit with the sleeves rolled up his defined forearms. His thumbs hung from some tabs near the hips, looking so natural it was like the loops had been put there for exactly that purpose.

I considered him and asked, “Have you got a minute?”

“For the Elder is the Order,” he quoted with no small amount of flair. Someone else knew his Codex, it sounded like.

“Then have a seat and tell me more about Chicago.”

Not one to wait, Cicero spun a molded plastic chair around with his foot. He sat parallel to the far side of the desk. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re so damn busy all the time.”

Reaching up, I smoothed a hand reflexively over the back of my neck. The tension was nominal, which, aside from moments with Danse, meant fairly high. “Guilty.”

He nodded again and gave me a grin to acknowledge the return volley. “So what can I tell you?”

Asking about O’Leary wasn’t the best idea, but maybe I could work around to that. “Customs, politics. Most mutie kills in a season. Whatever you want.”

“How about weather? Gets as cold as a —“ he eyed me. I could see his mind working, wondering just how much he could get away with. “Heartless woman. I’ve known a few of those,” he finished with a hitch of his shoulder. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“So about the weather,” I deadpan-reminded him.

Cicero tipped his chair back and balanced on two of its chrome legs. “You ever see a real snowstorm? Not the ones you get out here.” He slanted a look at me.

“Considering I’ve been here since the age of three, that would be a no.”

He shook his head in what I took to be amazement. “Piles of snow. Heaps of it. Drifts up to… well, far over your head.”

Was that a dig at my height? “I ought to kick that chair out from under your ass.”

He let out a bark of laughter, louder than expected for the late hour. “You’re welcome to. But just so you know, that's considered flirting back home.”

“You sound like a pack of wolves out there. What else counts as flirting? Stabbing your crush in the kidneys?”  Despite his boldness, I was starting to thoroughly enjoy myself. “And you can get back on all four legs, soldier.”  

“Four legs, two legs, three. Whatever tugs your barge.” Pure innocence coated his voice, but his eyes were decidedly devilish as he settled his chair back down. “I’m sure you already figured out the Foundry's a lot more direct than the Citadel. It’s those winters. Not much else to do when the snow is piled three Elders high.”

Oh, that clever bastard. He already knew what I was aiming at.

But I circled back around. “Speaking of winters, how are things with your people now that they’ve had one to settle in?”

Cicero’s chin got a scratch as he thought about it. “The knights are all right. It’s harder to maintain our suits, but we’re figuring things out. Cade is busy as hell and loves it. I have never met anybody who thrives on that much work. Scribe Goode is exactly the same and Mayak, well, she’s Mayak.”

“Meaning?” My tone was purposefully bland.

“She likes books, not people. Put her anywhere and she’d be pretty much the same.”

I kept to myself the knowledge that Mayak liked certain people just fine. “Your turn, Paladin.”

“Me?” He laced fingers together behind his head and stretched out. “I like it here. I didn’t expect so many little differences in how people do things, but there's room to swing a cat. And there's this freedom. You’re more open to trying new things. Everyone, I mean, not just you-the-Elder.”

I took the bait. “New things like Hellfire armor.”

His fake-surprised look warmed my heart. “It’s like you read my mind.”

“That’s why you came here, isn’t it? To convince us they should be the standard now that we have the facilities at Adams?”

“Part of the reason,” he said. Cicero was sitting parallel to the far edge of the desk so he wasn't looking at me straight on. But with that comment he eyed me full in the face and, without enough time for me to process anything, moved on. “But, yeah. Elder O'Leary and a lot of the other paladins think Hellfire armor is too complicated and sensitive.”

“They have a point,” I said. “Look at the Bannister recovery. We can’t trust any system that’s going to act temperamental.”

“None of that will happen once we’ve got our maintenance schedule worked out.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Meanwhile give us some clean ops. You’ve got to convince all our paladins, not just me. And while I’ve got you in the hot seat,” I stuck in before he could thank me, “what was the other part of reason?”

Cicero’s expression was more mature yet reminiscent of Arthur’s wrinkled nose. “Politics.”

“Isn’t it always?”

His chin tipped towards me, and with the lights and that that three-day growth of hair, became a bit of a yao guai. “Sometimes it’s sex.”

I would never get a better opening than that.

The one lamp on Jameson's desk was making Cicero's eyes glimmer. I ignored it and pressed for what had been on my mind. “I hear your Elder has quite the record."

"That's the truth." The paladin rubbed at the back of his scalp. "Don't get me wrong, he's entitled to it, just ... I don't know. Not how I’d run things.”

“What do you mean?”

With a shake of his head, he said, “The problem isn’t the attending. It’s the favors that go with it. People started, well, trying to catch his eye."

I hiked my ankle up over the opposite knee and allowed all of the blatant curiosity that I felt to spill out. “Is that really how it’s done out there?”

Cicero’s brow lifted while the rest of him was one resigned nod. “Unofficially.”

My lips pursed as I thought of the Worshippers and of Danse’s unknown provocateur. “What about officially? Could someone get promoted just for attending him?”

Even though Cicero shaped his mouth into a similar-looking pucker, it was all slanted more to the side. “Merit wasn't ignored, but — ” he sighed. 

This was about as interesting as news got. "Did he ever send for you?” I asked, point-blank. 

"He did, but he should have known better. I like women. If they outrank me or not."

_ Roger Maxson's ballsack, this man was direct. _

Logging back out of Jameson’s terminal, I gave no indication I'd been looking at anything sensitive. I had a point to make, though. Leaning back in my chair, I folded my hands. “Our promotions are based on merit. Officially and unofficially. Is that understood?”

“Of course.”

Aiming a frown at him, I kept prodding. "So that day in the Great Hall you meant…."

"What I said," he supplied. He braced a defined forearm against the edge of Jameson’s desk, and turned the smolder up to eleven. “And I'll live if you don't send for me. But unless you tell me to back off, I'll keep talking to you. Every chance I get. This is about more than duty."

I tried to save the ice from my Medieval queen moment, but it had all melted with that bombshell of a statement. I felt all slushy. Not frigid at all.  

"Though with your permission, Elder, I'll quit bothering you for tonight.“

Somehow, I swallowed past the dryness and said, "Permission granted."

He stood up and saluted. Dipped his fiery coif in just a hint of the bow from last time. "Then I'll be on my way."  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

It was my custom, like Father’s, to get to paladins' meetings early enough to watch everyone else arrive. Being first let me assess everyone’s demeanor, their level or lack of agitation, how tightly they gripped their cups of coffee or cans of Aqua pura. It was also useful to see who came in with whom, and who entered alone.

So the rumble of voices emanating from the Great Hall on this particular day surprised me.

At my right, as always, Cross said, “Seems like we’re late.”

“Or they started early,” I replied. The shrillest of the voices belonged to Paladin Leoni. Damn. I’d hoped he’d be otherwise occupied. His nasal tone came dangerously close to making my ears bleed. Also, if he was there, Brandis, Valdez, and Marr would be close by.

Sighing, I angled my head towards Cross. “Don’t suppose I could get to you take this one for me?”

The sparkle of her teeth was an answer itself, but she added, “And take away all your fun?”

“I’ve had more fun cleaning centaur spit off my armor.”

Cross flicked an eyebrow at my exaggeration and, with an ability I’d always admired, erased all traces of emotion from her face. I followed suit, then took a deep breath and briskly walked the remaining steps into the Great Hall.

One half-second sweep of the room gained me valuable intel. On the left, as expected, were the Worshippers and those aligned with them. I’d read about a phenomenon called ‘rat king’. It fit this bunch. Cicero was sitting awfully close to them as well. Interesting.

On the right were my allies. Even as I watched, Cross moved to join them, returning quiet greetings. Of the Pride, Vargas, Glade, and Kodiak were there. Krieg made eye contact, raised a graying brow, and nodded. So did Bael.

“Good morning, brothers and sisters.” I showed teeth, leaving it up to them to interpret whether it was a smile or not.

Some time ago, I’d made the decision to remove the generator and work lights from the middle of the conference room, since they’d been there more for Rothchild’s slowly failing eyes than anything else. Their absence allowed me to bisect the room, walking straight up the middle to the waiting urn of coffee at the back. A quick look over my shoulder told me that Vargas had already secured Cross her own cup, so I got one for myself and then turned to lean against the counter. There was still some time left to observe.

Across the room, Valdez and his followers had already turned towards me, like broc flowers following the sun. Or like scopes on a target. As I watched, Marr leaned in to whisper something to Brandis, who nodded and made a note on the pad of paper he was holding.

Glade separated himself from the friendly side at that point, coming over to stand next to me.

“Something’s got them riled up,” he warned, reaching for his own mug.

His pale eyes were guarded, but I recognized the concern within. Taking a sip of coffee to hide my mouth, I quietly responded, “I see that. Any idea what?”

He smiled and shook his head then, as if I’d told him a joke. “Vargas figures it’s because the Pride hasn’t found that behemoth yet. Damn thing just fucking disappeared.”

Glade sounded pissed and I couldn’t blame him. I clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll find him, Brother. You and that Gatling gun of yours.”

Movement on the other side of the room told me that the Worshippers were taking their seats. I leaned into Glade’s ear. “Of course, I could always send them out looking.”

He saw the smile in my eyes and returned it as we rejoined the others. Abigail had kept the seat directly opposite Valdez open, so I pulled it out and sat down. She was at my right, and Vargas to my left. I cracked my knuckles. Time to begin.

“You’ve all had the opportunity to review Krieg’s report on the newly discovered Metro.”

Most heads nodded. Krieg modestly lowered his at the smiles aimed his way. Unsurprisingly, most of them came from our side of the table.

“Paladin?” I gave Krieg the floor. He deserved every ounce of praise he got.

He took a slow look around the room. “Discovered, yes. Secured, no. We’ll need an op for extermination purposes.”

Brandis raised a brow and flipped through the folder in front of him. “Mirelurks, weren’t they?”

Krieg nodded.

“Why are we wasting our time with mutated seafood?” The supercilious tone of Leoni’s voice made my hackles rise. I felt Cross’s knee bump into mine under the table and I took a slow, calming breath.

"Because seafood is good eating,” Krieg drawled.

The grins that went around the table made my lips twitch. I shouldn't have worried — Krieg had this handled. And while Leoni obviously didn’t appreciate the answer, he had less seniority. All he could do was sit there and glower.

It was Valdez, Krieg’s contemporary, who spoke up instead. “What good would one Metro station do us at this point? It’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

I tapped my copy of Krieg’s report, including the data he’d retrieved from M.A.R.G.oT. Had any of them even read the fucking thing? “It’s not where it’s located, it’s where it leads.”

Krieg took the moment and ran with it. “As the report says, the main track is navigable for three hundred yards. Beyond that is a cave-in. What we need to do is flush and map the side tunnels. We located five, with two of them partially flooded. According to the Adams Metro computer, FDR Island station is next on the line. We can look for it, but we need to clear those side tunnels first,” he said, daring anyone to contradict him.

Nobody did. Not yet, anyway. I could tell by the way the Worshippers shifted in their seats that they were ready for a fight. Out of the corner of my eye, a figure in a black uniform leaned forward and spoke up.

“Let me take my team down there,” Cicero suggested. “We’ll exterminate and get dinner at the same time.”

“Flamers would work well on those ‘lurks.” Vargas pointed out out amidst the chuckles Cicero’s one-liner had prompted.

I bounced a pencil on my chin thoughtfully. I had told Cicero to give me some clean ops, after all. This would be a good opportunity for that. Decisively, I nodded. “All right. Cicero, work out the mission details with Cross. I want that station cleaned out as soon as possible. Just make sure your suits are in top condition.”

"Thank you, Elder. We'll all be sick of chowder by the time this is over."

Across the room, Leoni leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His lips were so puckered, he looked like he’d taken a bite of an unripe mutfruit. “Elder Lyons. Do you really think it’s in our best interests to continue this path? We control plenty of Metro stations already.”

Fuck, I wanted to punch that over-buttered dickcheese. Instead I let surprise shade my features. Tilted my head. “Can you think of a better way than securing the Metro system to end the mutant threat?”

Leoni’s lips curled back showing yellowed teeth. “We don’t have the manpower. Sending out squads, like the one to Bannister, would only strain our limited resources even further.”

Thank god for Krieg. While I was still reeling from the casual viciousness of the Bannister dig, he thumped his fists on the table. “Bullshit,” he barked. “Use your head, Leoni. The Presidential Metro netted us Adams, if you don't remember."

Glade backed this point up by saying, “We’re still sifting through the wreckage of the crawler, not to mention Adams itself. Pretty soon, there’ll be a surplus of resources.”

Brandis had regained his ability to speak. “You willing to bet our lives on that? We have nothing stockpiled. Other than the Foundry, we have no support.”

Mention of the Foundry turned all eyes towards Cicero, who shrugged one shoulder and looked in Leoni’s direction. “He has a point. Two years ago, we burned through a ton of supplies to secure the M65 atomic cannon at the Rock Island Arsenal. People... starved that winter.”

Cross, who up to that point had stayed silent, interjected with a shake of the head "Cicero, although I'm sorry for the suffering you all endured, the Citadel isn't the Foundry. We don’t have your weather or your issues with raiders on radstags. We also need to expend resources to secure assets and keep our enemies from doing the same."

My Star Paladin met every pair of eyes in the room as her words grew in strength and conviction. "These tunnels are the key to the entire region. Control them and we can be proactive instead of wearing ourselves out on these endless small engagements. Anyone thought of using the stations to block a Talon company retreat? Luring mutants underground to gas them? I can tell you,” she put a suggestive growl in her voice, “I’ve spent many a private moment enjoying those kinds of thoughts."

Abigail was a genius. Both her supporters and whoever who preferred to see her as a dried up old crone erupted in genuine laughter at the idea of Cross getting off on imagining our enemies' downfall. There was hooting. Pounding on tables. The tension in the room took its hooks out of us as we briefly went back to being squires united in the enjoyment of a dirty joke.

"All right, settle down," I said, once the catcalling had eased a little. "For formality's sake, let's put it to a vote. All those in favor of securing more Metro stations?"

Even though the final say was mine, it was useful to take the paladins’ temperature over issues like these. I lowered my eyes to the papers in front of me to allow those present a few moments. Low-voiced hisses punctuated by the sharper pops of consonants hit my ears. Leoni’s querulous voice rose above the others, only to be shushed.

I lifted my eyes at a voiced “no”, sounding unexpectedly from the end of the tables. It was Bael, red-faced and frowning, as she argued with Kodiak. This caught me by surprise. The Warden of the Gate usually agreed with my decisions, which made it my turn to frown. Had I misjudged here? No, I couldn’t have. Cross would’ve told me right away if the Metro plan was shaky. Krieg, too. Fucking politics, that’s all this was. Some way, somehow, it always boiled down to power.

As if on cue, Cross spoke up, as calm and unruffled as ever. “Brothers and sisters, your votes, please. All of those in favor?”

The hands I expected to see rose up. Most of them.

“And those opposed?”

Bael, still red-faced, was the first to thrust her arm up. Interesting. I‘d have to try to feel her out about why she felt so strongly. Cicero’s hand was also in the air. He made steady eye contact even when I looked right at him. It confused the hell out of me. Why had he agreed to clean out a Metro Station if he wasn't behind taking more?

“Nine ayes, seven nays. A clear majority. Elder Lyons?” Cross turned the meeting back over to me.

It was hard to untangle my gaze from Cicero’s and my thoughts from his motives.

The meeting broke up once other reports had been discussed and further ops planned. I dismissed everyone and thanked them for their time, but cleared my throat. “Paladins Krieg and Cicero, stay for a few minutes, please. Cross, you too.”

She pounced as soon as the others were gone, as I knew she would. In her driest of voices, the one that she reserved for the densest of scribes, she went for the jugular. “Paladin Cicero. You do realize that there’s an excellent chance that your extermination mission will lead seamlessly to FDR, right? These things are rarely as neat and tidy as the votes that precede them.”

She dismissed “these things” with a flip of her hand that belied the fierce spark in her eye. Cross was feisty today.

Unperturbed, Cicero inclined his torso in another one of those courtly bows of his. “Let me assure you — all of you —“ and his gaze swept over all three of us “ — that my loyalty lies with Elder Lyons. Whatever orders she gives, I’ll follow to the letter.”

Including orders to join me in bed, no doubt. I could all but see Cross’s ears turn like little radar dishes, trying to pick up any subtext. Hell, for all I knew, radar dishes were built into her body at this point. I needed to reroute this conversation ASAP.

“Krieg, how many squads are you taking?”

“Zeta and kappa are raring to go.”

“Good. Cicero, see that your people share that status. Do you need anything from Adams? Tools? Spare parts?”

His ruff of red hair waved along with his head. “With your leave, I’ll perform full checks on our suits. We have enough racks and diagnostic carts for them in the power armor bay now. I’ll have the data to you by 1300. ”

“All right. All squads will remain in North Potomac until the tunnels are clear. If you discover a way through to FDR, send someone topside and wait for instructions. We have no idea what’s down there. I’ll have Vargas and the Pride on standby, and Artemis will have his ears on.”

What else could I say to these two? Be careful? Write home?

“Shoot straight and fight hard, brothers. Ad Victoriam.”

As Krieg and Cross rose to go I held my last team member back. “Cicero. A word, please.”

I could feel the curious gazes of the others. I flipped my hand in a reassuring little wave that hopefully said nothing to see here, all is well.

“So which was it?” I asked when they were gone.

“Ma’am?” Cicero probably knew I was asking about his vote, but was wisely hiding his hand.

“Politics or sex?”

“Neither one.” All traces of lightness and humor left his face, leaving Cicero looking older than he actually was.

My next question was softer. “Who did you lose?”

“My sister. The niece or nephew she was carrying.”

Deep in my gut, I knew he was telling the truth. I’d seen that level grief reflected in my own mirror too often. This time his vote had nothing to do with politics or sex or even Hellfire armor. He was mourning a loss. It might even have played a part in his decision to get away from the Foundry.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them so he could read my sincerity. “I apologize. I misjudged your intent.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said

Father sprang to mind. He would’ve had a better read on this situation because he had a better knack for knowing what was going on with people.

I sighed. “Cicero… what’s your first name, anyway?”

“Marcus.”

The corner of my mouth rose. “You tell me your middle name is Tullius and I’m throwing you right out of here.”

The quick flare of a smile relit his face. “I’m never telling then.”

I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. “All right, Marcus maybe-Tullius. Here’s one for you that I’d do well to remember. ‘If we are not ashamed to think it—‘“

“‘— we should not be ashamed to say it.’ Words I live by, Elder Lyons.”

My brows rose. This man was full of surprises.

“Good,” I responded equably. “Then I trust you’ll keep voting the way you really think.”

"I plan to," he said.

*

The terminal in my bedroom room was the only place I could pick at both dinner and Jameson’s saga-length report without being in the public eye. Otherwise Abigail would insist I needed to eat more and anyone else who came into the solar would be scandalized by the sight of their Elder hunched over her bowl like a common raider.

The news wasn't good. Reginald’s stories were starting to lose coherence. And, in both a blessing and a curse, he was starting to forget he'd ever answered certain questions. The scribes had taken to using them as a metric for how clear-headed he was on any given day.

Clacking terminal keys from the outer room told me Danse had started work about twenty minutes ago. I hadn't bothered announcing myself. He was pretty much autonomous by this point.

I had two pages left to go when someone else sluiced in on a wave of sounds and voices from the corridor.

“Is Elder Lyons here?” said an unseen-but-heard Squire Maxson. His vocal chords had apparently decided today was a deeper day.

“I guess she’ll be back soon. What's your lesson for today?”

“It's very complicated.”

I winced. Arthur's dismissive tone was impossible to ignore. There was also more force in his words than necessary, as if it was somehow Danse's fault I wasn't in the front room. It made my blood pressure soar. Feelings were all well and good, but Arthur’s jealousy was now firmly in the way of his manners. This boy was going to learn to respect rank if I had to keep him on Teagan’s workforce for the rest of his squirehood.

A slow count of ten was crucial to keeping a level head. Danse tried to be friendly again in the meantime.

“That reminds me. I heard chess helps strategic thinking.”

“It’s helps a lot.” said Arthur, smug as an armchair paladin.

“I’d be honored if you’d teach me.”

That was when I realized Danse knew. Night after night, he’d seen Arthur contorting himself to get my attention, even to the point of literally putting himself between us. Danse was trying to help Arthur and me all at once

But Maxson said, “I don't have time. Some of the other knights probably know it.”

_Why that high-handed little prick!_

I was out of my chair in half a second. Maybe it was my unexpected appearance or the look I gave Arthur, but the latest of the Maxson line paled visibly.

“Knight Danse,” I said with words too lilting and sweet, “Could you go bring me a cup of coffee from the mess?”

“Ma’am,” he said, with a nod. Stoic ’til the end, that was Danse.

I held a pinch of my inner cheek between two canines as I sat in an easy chair opposite the rug where Arthur stood. He didn’t dare meet my eyes and I honestly didn’t feel like seeing them.

But while I felt grounded enough to keep from tearing the kid a new one, the first remark to pass my lips was desert-dry. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Squire, but didn't you ask me about disrespect just the other day?"

"Yes, ma'am," Arthur said miserably. He had the decency to feel humiliated at least.

"All right. Then give me one of about twenty Codex verses about working together.”

"Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to dwell together in unity."

That particular verse had been lifted from a much older book, but it qualified. "All right, give me another one."

Now Arthur was looking at my kneecap instead of the floor between my feet. "Seven rods will hold when one will break."

"Give me one more. And yes, there is a reason."

It took a few more seconds and another breath but he soon came up with, "For on the conduct of each depends the fate of all."

I waited until he looked at me. Really looked with blue eyes glinting and jaw set, ready to face whatever was coming his way, but with too much fight in him still. "Interesting. You can come up with three relevant principles in just over a minute, right after you sat there willfully undermining each and every one of them. How does that happen?"

Arthur's rush of words was like a massive hydraulics leak. "Elder Lyons, I have no excuse."

"Of course you don't, there is none. But I want to hear what's going on in that lurk shell you call a skull, so explain."

Now he was really sweating. Good. The little twerp was damn lucky it was me who’d caught him and not Cross or one of the Pride. I still saw in Arthur what they might not.

"I got into a bad habit," he said at last.

I wasn't expecting that, but kept my tone even. "Do tell."

“People don't like Danse. They don't get why you picked him to … arrange your books." he said, verbally stumbling so badly it would have been obvious what was really on his mind, even if he hadn't gone flame-red in the ears.

I thought of cold watches on dark nights. Digging ghoul bits out of my armor. Long winter evenings in the Den, with only the Pride's height jokes for entertainment. A thousand unpleasant things were still better than having this conversation. I glanced at the ceiling and asked Father for strength.

"People, meaning?"

"Knights. Squires."

"Squires?" The younger set piling onto the Danse-denigration was a new and unsavory wrinkle. "Why would they care either way?"

“There are all these stories floating around." He shifted uneasily and dared look at me for a split second.

"What kind of stories?"

Clearing his throat would have been a good start, except there was no follow-up.

I uncrossed my legs and then recrossed them the other way, leveling a piercing stare at the boy. My plan was to convince him that anything less than the truth would ensure he became the last of the Founder's line.

"No war was ever won on generalities, Maxson. Out with it."


	14. Chapter 14

My crossed-legs-and level stare combination had a devastating effect on Arthur, who stared squirming so hard he was liable to wear a hole in the floor. 

"Like Knight Danse used to be a scavver," he confessed, "Like he's not even from the Capital, maybe. Like him and Knight Cutler are, uh, nevermind."

Both of my eyebrows shot up at the last part. Father had spent years carefully selecting those who would train our youngest brothers and sisters, making sure they were all free from among other things, the old prejudices about same-sex relationships. Hearing this despite everything Father had done made my knuckles bunch. Who the hell had been poisoning our youth with this garbage?

“So, repeating with others are saying, that's the ‘bad habit' you're talking about."

Scraping his hair into a better attempt at order, Arthur nodded.

I sat back and ground my molars while I thought some more. The campaign against Danse had the Worshippers written all over it. Only they would sink low enough to destabilize what Father had built through the knight I’d selected to attend me. This new wrinkle added to my certainty. 

"Your honesty will lighten your punishment," I said. Arthur winced at this, but he'd better believe I wasn't going to let him off the hook just because he was cooperating now. “Is that everything you’ve heard?”

That was when Arthur Maxson appeared to lose his nerve. He'd been sitting more calmly after the last exchange, but now his expression collapsed in on itself, like a sinkhole opening in the wastes.

“Squire, stay with me," I urged. "You're nearly out the other side."

"The other story," he said in a voice that cracked almost on cue. "Is that he's only …. nice to you .... to get promoted faster."

It was tactful phrasing for somebody so young. Still, it was further evidence that our squires were getting a graphic education in how vile adults could be.

"All right," I said, coming back to myself. "Now. Do you remember your trip from out West?"

A grown man was suddenly looking out of a boy’s face. He said, “I remember everything.” 

I let silence wrap us, weigh us down. Shouts and footsteps floated through the closed door to the hall as a group of squires, maybe even Arthur's dorm, bounced off towards their leisure time, many still innocent in ways he was not.

Every kind of bad luck had dogged Arthur's caravan out of Lost Hills. What had seemed at the outset like two weeks in aging but serviceable vehicles had become a forced march taking three times as long. They had taken losses. Possibly the first combat deaths Arthur had ever seen. He'd been seven at the time.

"And yet you persevered. But do you remember what people said after you got here?”

Arthur considered this. His face had lost some of its roundness in the last year. His nose and chin were starting to shift into a leaner configuration that might even become that of a proud warrior someday.

"They said Mother wanted to get rid of me. That I didn't have any steel, that I wasn't --" something rose up in Arthur's throat but he swallowed " -- a real Maxson, or some bullsh--. Sorry."

"It was bullshit. Tell me why."

Arthur raised the blinds hiding his feelings and looked at me with the amazement of being taken seriously. Treated like an adult. "They didn't know me. They didn't see what happened on the way here. They were just … I don't even know. They just wanted to --"

And he stopped himself as my questions began to make sense.

"Keep going," I said.

“They just wanted to cut me down.” His words were drenched in wonder. 

I nodded. "Because some saw you as a threat. So don't repeat their bullshit mistakes. Instead, watch how an accused brother behaves. Does he deny things at the top of his lungs, or get into fights?” I looked at Arthur meaningfully as his ears broadcast embarrassment once again. “If so, maybe the rumors have a bit of truth. But if he sticks with his friends and puts all his energy into doing his best for the order, then there's probably something else going on."

With a firmness that showed his understanding, he said. "I'll do that, Elder Lyons." 

"All right," Now sit down for a few minutes. I need to concentrate on these maps.

Danse returned soon enough, carrying not one but two mugs of coffee. I thanked him with my eyes as he left both of them on the table where my maps were laid out.

Arthur had his nose deep so in the book containing his assigned speech, it looked like he was trying to dive into it.

"Now," I said, "You need to apologize."

Even Danse looked uncomfortable for a second. But he knew this was part of the equation. And the squire, well, he was going to have to suck it up. For a moment, I thought Arthur might even defy me, his brow was so stormy, his lips folded so tightly together. It was a too-long, too-tense handful of seconds before anyone spoke. 

"Knight Danse," he said with hands tight together on the book's spine. "I didn't respect your rank or you with the way I was talking. I’m sorry.”

"I forgive you,” Danse said, with so much gravity it was like we'd all surfaced in the middle of a wedding.

My nod underscored my words. "That was well done, Squire. But there's still a consequence for the original action. So I'm sorry, but there’ll be no recitation today. I'll see you next week."

I could see the fleeting hurt in his eyes before he shut it down. But if my approval was one of the things Arthur longed for, then it was a fitting punishment to take away a chance to earn it.

"Elder Lyons," he said with a small salute. "Knight Danse."

There was a little twist to my gut as Arthur shut the door. Even though I’d handled the situation calmly, Arthur's parting expression struck a nerve. Scrubbing my fingers over my eyelids didn’t banish the image, so I turned to Danse, the scavver, the outsider. 

“Danse—“

“Don’t.” He colored slightly at the forceful bite of the word. “What I mean is, you don’t have to say anything. I'm still in this with you." 

With a little exhale I said, "I was going to ask if you know these actions against you aren't pure spite. They're political."

"I know."

As usual, he was nothing but stoicism. But instead of going dutifully back to work, Danse walked over to one of the few bookcases that remained disorganized. Tucked into a darker part of the room, it had become a catch-all over the years, with a multitude of objects filling up the spaces on tops of books and between them. Mineral samples, curious pre-war artifacts nobody could identify, and other odd miscellanea that Father had collected over the years.

Danse drew an item from one of the middle shelves and cast a conspiratorial look over his shoulder. Curiosity drew me to his side, and I contorted my neck in an attempt to see what he held.

“What do you have there?”

“Something that might come in handy.”

There was no reason why a 2074 Corvega Atomic V8 maintenance manual should make Danse look flustered. But his self-consciousness rivaled Arthur's from a moment ago.

Flipping open the cover raised more questions than it answered. Well, it had probably raised a lot more than questions over the years, judging by how well-thumbed the pages were. My shame at knowing who had been doing the thumbing got shoved on its ass when I started staring at one very accurate and detailed drawings after another. The cover had been pasted on. This book was definitely. Not. About cars.

"Was it just lying around?” I asked, too riveted to look up.

"There was in an old box with a game inside. This was at the bottom."

I laughed at this unexpected window into Father's life, not to mention the fact that Danse had just found something incredibly valuable. I could probably get a mini-nuke launcher for it at any trading stand I could think of. Not that I'd be selling.

"Which game?"

"The one with the letters on wood squares. At first I thought the letters were underneath that board and that we could play."

"Oh we can play, all right," my eyes never straying from those black and white line drawings. “Maybe just not Scrabble."

Danse eased back and tried, unsuccessfully, to get back to work. He would tap a few keys, stop. Tap a few more.

Meanwhile I paged greedily through the book. There were foreign words. An entry for clothed intercourse -- was exotic before the war? -- something called birdsong at morning and something else called a grope suit. The foreword bore the oddly prescient title "Love in a Late Capitalistic Dystopia." Further on, I found a cardboard rectangle with the cryptic message: Please Make My Room. A circle was cut into one end, and a faded gilt pattern scrolled along the edges. I, turned it over and burst out laughing.

Danse actually looked startled.

"I don't think any more cataloguing will be getting done tonight," I said. "You are, though."

He stared at me in the best possible way. Walking to where my knight sat, I leaned over his shoulder and held the very interesting find up for him to see. He smelled of lye soap and testosterone. Perfect. 

"I'm going to have a quick talk with Star Paladin Cross. Go on in back and do a little research on Sauces & Pickles. Give me something you want to try."

I slipped away while I still had strength in my legs, thanking the Founders Abigail was in her office. And alone. I slipped in and shut the door. Waited politely for her to finish scribbling whatever it was she was writing. I was almost dancing — Dansing, I snorted to myself — by the time she was done.

“What brings Elder Lyons to my little slice of paradise?” Abigail spread her hands wide towards less than paradisiacal concrete and bare floor. Her right brow twitched. 

Boneless legs finally gave out, dropping me into the nearest chair. No need to beat around the bush, was there?

“Here’s the part where I tell you you were right.”

Cross tilted her head. “Of course I was. But humor an old woman. What was I right about this time?”

I sidestepped the question by laying the Do Not Disturb sign on her desk. She puckered her lips in thought and spun it around with the tip of a finger. “I’m afraid if you’re looking for lodging, you’ll have to look elsewhere. Full of mutants, last I heard.”

“New rule, Abigail. If this sign is hanging on the door to the solar, it had better be followed to the letter.” I gave Cross one of her own patented Looks. “Nobody knocks unless the Lab is on fire, or Spot is at the gate.”

“Ahhh…” she drew the sound out with satisfaction and leaned back in her chair.

Shaking my head and ignoring her wide grin, I said, “Don’t get all… whatever on me. Just make sure word gets around. Discreetly, please.”

Cross picked up her pencil again and jotted an imaginary note in the air. “When the do not disturb sign is up, so is your knight. Got it.”

“Oh my fucking god,” I muttered and shoved myself out of the chair as Abigail cackled merrily away.

It was kind of amazing that knees could be so watery with anticipation yet still get me back down the hall, but there I found myself, nose to the solar door. With great propriety, I slid the sign onto the doorknob, took a breath, and stepped in. Crossing the second threshold got me an eyeful of Danse in my desk chair. He dropped the book into his lap, but not before I saw what he was trying to hide.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," slid out of my smirking mouth as I engaged the lock on the inner door. "Find anything you like?"

“Everything,” he said, still turning pages. He didn't look up either.

"Time is on our side," I slid my arms around his powerful neck from behind. "Congratulations, soldier. You've convinced me to start taking regular breaks."

"Krieg always says we shouldn't neglect downtime.” He cupped my upper arm and squeezed.

I slid a hand down and squeezed another bulge in return. The groan he gave me plugged my nerves into a fusion generator. "We won't be neglecting anything."

And the banter didn't stop there. "We should … double and triple check," Danse said.

"We'll be super thorough," I assured him and smacked the part of his butt he wasn't sitting on. "But first, get that ass into bed."

He wasted no time getting undressed. I took mine, watching heavy pecs and rippling flanks appear. The toned roundness of the skin I'd just thwacked positively beckoned me and I turned on my desk lamp so we wouldn't be blinded by fluorescents.

"You still haven't said what's on the menu for the evening," I said, pulling my uniform right side out in the gentler light. Danse was already under the covers, naked and hugging his bent knees as he watched me peel off my last layer.

"I kept going back to that first recipe."

Danse had left what was going to be forever known as the Maintenance Manual on my desk. Flipping to the table of contents let me look up the first entry in Sauces & Pickles.

I let a pleased hum float over and then followed him to bed on cat feet. "That's an advanced maneuver, Knight. Any personal experience?"

“A little."

I sat down on the edge of the bed closest to him. His eyes were dark and yearning. "Giving or getting?"

“Some of both."

Leaning in took me close enough to kiss him, once, on his plush mouth. "Mmm. And do you want to give or get tonight?"

"Depends on what you want.” My adorably intrepid soldier bit his lip.

"Oh, I want a lot of things. But I think," my fingers trailed up to stroke the shaved part of his head, "it's easier for me to give first."

There was some prep involved. Towels. A wide enamel bowl I sometimes used as a washbasin. The all-important mineral oil. Danse had his eyes glued to me as I laid everything out on top of a storage chest at the foot of the bed, alongside a jug of aqua pura. 

The last item to make its appearance was very rare in the wasteland. Years ago, I’d found a pair of thole pins -- solid steel pegs anchoring the oars on a rowboat. Their original shape had been intriguing enough to sneak them back to the Citadel. Secretly grinding and polishing them had made them perfect. 

Taking one of these out of my underwear drawer completed the arrangements

"We might not use this. You'd have to be good and ask nicely."

"Can I see?"

Predictably, he examined it from every angle, tracing the smoothed surfaces and testing the weight. If this were anything to go by, Danse was open to the idea, though it remained to be seen how open he really was.

“Do you need to take care of anything? Guess I should’ve mentioned that before you stripped,” I said with a crooked smile.

“No,” he replied hoarsely. “I take showers after dinner and ...” He bit his lip again and fell into flustered silence. A restless hand placed the rounded pin next to him on the bed, then picked it right back up again.

I couldn’t blame him for the nerves. I cocked my head to the side and rather conversationally asked, “Do you know what my favorite part of this will be?”

Danse shook his head and rolled the steel slowly between his palms in a perfect setup for my delivery.

I lowered my voice into a purr. “How good you’re gonna feel.”

The sheer hunger in his eyes nearly dropped me to my knees. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and it did things to me. Danse leaned back then, and I eyed the very impressive tent he had going on under the sheet as I washed and dried my hands. At least one part of him was ready. The rest I’d see to myself.

Letting the delicious tension stretch out, I prowled from the bureau to the side of the bed. Three short steps stretched into the space of six with each slow roll of my hips and precise toe-to-heel footfall. Danse’s hot eyes were watching the whole time.

I surprised him by dropping to my knees at the side of the bed. The hand still holding the thole pin hung off the edge, and I nudged it with my cheek. Getting him in the mood -- well further in the mood -- was important.

My tongue traced a delicate path over the thin skin of his forearm. He gripped the pin tightly and tendons rose up to meet my questing mouth. 

“Relax,” I whispered, and took the pin away.


	15. Chapter 15

I kissed my way down his chest, rolling my cheek along soft fur. The lower I got, the further down I pulled the blanket until there was enough room to get between his legs and roll my tongue around the pretty crown of his cockhead.

“Stay inside,” I whispered. 

Wrapping my lips around Danse, I gave him a few plunging strokes before I rose so far up his hips came off the bed. That was how I got the towel under him.

That trick had come to me from a troupe of wandering actors -- actually a troupe of wandering whores whose bad acting kept them from being kicked out of the more conservative settlements. The guy playing Othello on their most memorable go-round had taught me plenty, in fact he'd worked me over so thoroughly in his closet of a Rivet City dressing room it was amazing we hadn't shaken any rivets loose. I’d have to take Danse over there some day and see if we could break any beds. Maybe during Krieg’s recruiting run.

I met Danse's stare with a broad lick up the underside of his cock. Then I poured a little oil into one palm, and with the fingers of that same hand playing with each other, spread the gleam slowly around.

“Which hand am I using?”

“Your left,” he said.

“Mmm hm. It makes a lot of things easier.” 

I smoothed the next few drops around his warm pucker and his eyes slid closed. With crossed fingers for the breach, I eased my lover open. A stroke of lust pierced me when he pushed back almost right away.

“It'll burn if you're greedy,” I said.

“I want it to,” he groaned, rolling his hips around and making my insides twitch with the force of his lust. The way he went for things, fuck.

I shoved aside the urge to just climb on top of my full-of-surprises knight and fuck him into tomorrow morning. Instead I pulled out to add some more oil. “Well, I like things smooth and easy. Keep that in mind.”

“I'll remember,” he said, his head thrown to the side, his hips seeking.

With less worry about hurting him, I started to experiment with which rhythms he liked, or which curls and twists got the best reactions. He was one of those guys who stayed more or less hard the whole time, which was a beautiful thing. I loved the sight of him spread out and gripping whatever was grippable, including my knees spread under this thighs and that fucking thole pin on top of the sheets. Every once in awhile, he would stroke it or run his thumb over the tip. Something about that was such a turn-on, it felt like I was leaking as much as he was.

In the meantime, I was cataloguing all of Danse's sounds, comparing them, filing them away to relive later. Other sensations too. Slick-sliding pushes and the sheen of his skin in the lamplight. The catch of his breath as he exposed a strong jawline. Every so often he’d roll his head towards me, all dazed and gorgeous-looking.

It wasn’t like I knew how to work one, but every ounce of me wished for a camera. Especially when I twisted my fingers a certain way and his hips jerked upwards. As slippery as my hand was, I could squeeze just a little tighter against his thrust. It dragged a full groan out of him, so I did it again. Damn shame my fingers were as short as the rest of me. I backed out to explore near his exit a bit more

“Don’t…” he licked his lips and muttered.

Immediately contrite, I paused. “Hurts?”

His fingers dug into my legs. “No! Don’t … stop. Please.”

I bit my lip as my eyes fluttered shut, remembering the last time I’d said that. It was in this same bed. I'd been immobilized, my unseen lover ---

My eyes widened.

Holy shit — that voice from the dream had been his!

Everything in my head swerved, even the room tilted for a second. Here I was putting Danse through his paces, but did I secretly want him in control of me? 

"Sarah …" 

His voice dragged me back to the here and now. I shook off the pull of my dreams and leaned towards him. "Here's where you get to ask for more, if you want."

Dark-eyed and sure he said, "I do."

His cock bobbed in the air when I let go of it long enough to ease the thole pin out of his hand. It was a solid weight, reassuringly heavy and warm from his touch. I rested it on his taut stomach for a moment, giving Danse time to drink it in, before grazing his hipbone and trailing the tip down between his abs and thigh. Oh, that got him going. His gorgeous cock jumped and more slick leaked out of him with the next twist of my fingers.

“I don't know,” I teased. The scepter came to rest on the towel between our legs and I gave his cock another few strokes with the hand that wasn't inside him. “I've been asking so much of you.”

His diaphragm jumped with silent laughter and I caught a flash of teeth, even though his eyes stayed closed.

“I can probably…." he planted his feet for more leverage and scooped up into my hand. "Stay in the field a bit longer."

“The Brotherhood appreciates your sacrifice.” I said tartly. His laugh went all the way into my fingers.

I went hunting for the lube with my dry hand and got Danse's end of the thole pin gleaming before I pressed it against him. He jumped a little.

“Cold? Poor thing.” I got onto my knees with one hand planted and the other set to execute. “But I’m sure you’ll warm it up in no time. And Tristan?”

He looked up at me, eyes full of need. 

“I’m just here for leverage. The motion comes from you."

“Okay,” he said.

A smile stole over me. "But eyes front. I want to see what I'm doing to you."

When he started to feel the stretch, Danse’s lips parted. And his sigh. It was a broken one that spilled out of him as he took maybe half the big tool on the first thrust. Definitely past that flared head. I was impressed and so fucking turned on that it was another struggle not to rush into finding out exactly how much he could take.

“Easy,” I cautioned.

The gentle warning was more for myself than Danse, especially when his eyes rolled back in his head when he took in a little more. A shudder went through him, into the mattress, and then up into my knees. I felt as empty as he was filled. Still, I wouldn’t give this up for a second.

In a whisper both tender and fierce, I prompted, “Eyes up here.”

Nostrils flared and his jaw worked as he fought for control but after a few seconds, they fluttered open.

“Good?”

He nodded and wet his lips. “So good.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how he obeyed, but he kept watching me as he dug his heels into the mattress for a slow, easy backwards slide. Right then, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a damn shame that Cicero wasn’t interested in men. Watching him fuck my knight into mindlessness would be worth every cap in the wasteland. Did O'Leary ever --

The thought got shoved aside before it melted my brain.

The thole pin had enough of a flare that it stayed put when I let go. So I sat back, rested a forearm on each of his knees and said, “Hold that thought.”

Another item I kept around was a piece of thin rubber tubing. I didn’t use it a lot, but whenever I wound it around the base of one of those thole pins, it gave me the purchase that I really needed, especially now with hand and handle both so slippery.

Danse watched the wrapping and tying off with interest because of course he did. This was despite the movements making him softly curse or hiss on the odd inhale.

My look pinned him. “If I’d known you were such a slut, I would have done this before we started." 

He smiled a little. “Not sure how I should take that.”

It was too easy. “You should take it lying down.”

It was a good thing the knot was already made because the thole pin jumped as Danse laughed again. That died away very fast when I spun my new and improved toy around its long axis.

“Feel that?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good. Then you’d better hang onto something.”

I didn’t start off pistoning into him. No, I worked up to that. And I gave him breaks sometimes. Slowed down, changed the angle. But there was one I kept coming back to because he squirmed like a netted carp every single time. 

“Stay still,” I cautioned. I didn’t want to stab this man in the kidneys. “Can you?”

“Not sure,” he gasped. ”It feels like I have to take a leak.”

Oh, that was very interesting. “Then absolutely don’t move. No matter how strong that feeling gets. You won’t embarrass yourself, I promise.”

“Oh-okay,” he stammered when I started up again, more slowly this time, and more shallowly, paying close attention to everything Danse did. He was rock hard and deeply pink without any contact. I ached to put my mouth on him. On the other hand, if I was right about what might happen, I wanted to see the fireworks even more.

“Oh, fuck, Sarah,” he blurted after another minute. “It’s —“

“Stay with it. Just a little —“

He groaned. It was deep and low and started just before the first shot of his release hit him in the chest, at which point it became an open-mouthed roar. That too faded as Danse painted himself with stripe after incredible stripe in probably the most explosive climax I’d ever seen. Fuck me. Or maybe not, because with how he shook for the better part of a minute, there was no way I was going to get a ride anytime soon.

But it was so raw and beautiful. Missing out on fucking him the regular way was totally worth the blissed-out smiles that met me as I got him unplugged and clean and comfy. Curling up with him after I’d set everything aside and pulled the covers up again. 

It was a while before he spoke, or even could. 

“That was….” Danse’s head rolled sideways on the pillow, all blissed out and slack-jawed. Okay, so he still couldn’t really talk. I’d supply the words for him. 

“Incredible? Hot as fuck?”

A little noise in the back of his throat was his only reply. Watching him lose control like that was all of the above and so much more. I noticed a pearlescent dot on his neck. “I missed some,” I whispered, swiping my thumb through it.

He wasn’t really paying attention, but I licked my thumb anyway and pondered if he was up to letting me sit on his face again. I ached, inside and out, up and down, head to toe. What about guiding his hand down between my legs? I softly stroked the hair on Danse's stomach and earned a soft, sleepy grunt.

Nope. I’d have to handle things myself. There was another thole pin in the drawer… but by the time that thought was finished I’d already squirmed into position on my back and slung a thigh over Danse’s legs. I’d wait until he was more on the conscious side before giving him that particular show. Or let him perform the show on me, like a magician, complete with wand.

The sigh as my fingertips made contact roused him a little. The bicep under my neck bunched and slid as Danse rolled halfway on his side to nuzzle my ear.

“Let me help?”

“No.” I needed to come now, not later. Then, realizing how harsh that might’ve sounded, I said, “It’s your turn to watch. Besides, you look like a damn noodle or something.”

A small smile touched his lips and exhausted eyes. His large, hard palm slid down the inside of the thigh I’d draped over him, drawing it even higher. “Blamco’s best.”

That pulled a laugh out of me, a shaky little one, because I’d just started to draw slippery circles around the perimeter of my clit. My eyes drifted shut so I could focus on replay of what I’d just done to him. How hard he’d been, and how hard he’d come for me.

“Fuck, Tristan,” I groaned.

He drew me closer to his body and kissed the top of my ear. His gentleness reminded me to slow down and let him enjoy the show. But the end was rolling in too fast, a full-tilt blitz that wouldn’t fully satisfy unless I gave myself some more prep. So I slowed the pace and began to skim my fingers lightly along swollen, slick folds. Dipped them inside and swirled, stroking all the tiny trigger points. This one, here, that made my breath catch if I pressed upwards. The smooth expanse of flesh farther inside, the one that my fingertips could barely reach.

Danse unfortunately took the slowing down to mean stalling. He started murmuring little nothings in my ear. Rubbing circles on my thigh with his thumb. And that voice. Knowing I'd dreamt about his rough baritone made it twice as potent. The peak rushed up, too jagged, too fast.

Goddamn it! 

I thrust my other set of fingers in, trying to engage that inner bundle of nerves before the outside one hit its point of no return. Too late, though. A frustrated little cry slipped out of my lips and I pressed hard against my clit, trying to delay the inevitable. This was nowhere near as good as it could’ve been, fuck! I wanted what he’d had! I wanted to be a nonverbal tangle of slickness and sweat. To come apart completely.

Soon the heavier breaths of sleep stole over Danse. It let me get up and watch him, envying the ease with which he could drift off. But I couldn't hold onto hard feelings. Danse’s inexperience wasn’t his fault. Teach him a little more and I’d get those mind-blowing releases I craved. Besides, he looked too damn cute under the covers, trusting arms and legs thrown every which way.

Sighing, I washed up. Clean underwear and comfortably worn-in fatigues kept the chill away once I wasn’t up against a warm body, and back at my desk, tapping through more electronic files, although news of what Talon Company was up to was chilling me in other ways.

After awhile, motion on the tangled bed drew my attention. 

“How long was I out?” Danse asked from sitting. He was yawning and knuckling his eyes.

“Only two and a half field reports,” I picked up the second of the two mugs he’d brought watched him over the rim of it. “Enough time to drink the coffee, though.”

Danse swung his long legs out of bed. “I can get you more.”

I gave him a casual once-over, trying to stop short of lechery. “I think you've earned you a break from mess-hall duty. Thank you for supporting the cause.”

“I should be the one thanking you,” Danse said stepping into his briefs and dragging them up.

“Oh, don't worry. You will be.” Green letters on a black screen is where my eyes should have gone, but I couldn’t keep them away from his reverse striptease. “Who knows, I might even be disciplined enough to keep from jumping you the next time we’re alone. Let you get some books shelved.”

“It’s still early,” he offered. "I'll do some more now."

“You have more than discharged your obligations for the night, soldier. Come back tomorrow."

“You’re still working,” he said. It was too mild to be called arguing.

A wry little smile made its way onto my face. “I didn’t serve as capably as you did. Besides, I can’t let the perks of my rank get in the way of responsibilities.” A thought struck me. “Perks. Perquisites.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing, just thinking out loud. Just do me a favor and take that sign off the outer door.”

“Copy,” Danse said. When he gave me back the sign, I guided him by the wrist until he was leaning on my desk chair and over me, his eyes all mellow and warm.

The placard made a perfect bookmark. I folded it into the maintenance manual's table of contents and then drew my knight even further down using one of the hard attachment points on his contact suit.

“Give Sarah a good sendoff.”

His “yes, ma’am” blended deliciously with his warm lips.

When we had to pause for a much-needed breath, I hummed in my throat and gave him a sultry look. “You’re getting good at this.”

“I couldn’t think of a better instructor,” he replied with a smile. The warm lamplight picked out tiny flecks of gold in his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. “You even come with a manual.”

“Then I'll make my chassis yours next time.” My voice and face were stern, with the exception of suggestively wiggling eyebrows.

“Roger that.” Danse stole a final kiss and brushed his knuckles across my cheek with a look so sweet, it damn near made me melt.

Not five minutes after he slipped out of the room, a quiet knock sounded on the inner door. Upon opening it, I found one of our younger squires standing in the doorway, a steaming mug of coffee balanced carefully on a mess hall tray along with a slice of flatbread topped with pale yellow brahmin cheese.

“Elder Lyons, ma’am,” she piped.

I nodded solemnly. “Squire.”

“A knight said to bring this.”

Danse. Of course he would’ve heard my stomach rumbling.

“Thank you, Squire. Careful of that cord on the way out.”

I set the tray down next to my terminal with the unshakeable feeling that another evening spent with all this paperwork might not be so bad.


	16. Chapter 16

It was only after looking through the most recent batch of combat statistics that I felt dug out enough to call it quits. My eyes were burning and there was a weariness in my shoulders that was completely different from the fatigue of spending all day in armor. I missed that more honest soreness -- the kind that came from physical labor. Even the stress of putting my life on the line beat making sure the Citadel's every mole-rat-burrow of a problem didn't turn into a yawning, ghoul-infested crater.

Plus I'd had too much coffee.

Tying my hair back up and lacing my boots got me out the door and into the empty corridors. I'd walk until it tired me out -- past deserted common rooms and bunkrooms full of snores. Around the lower levels, where our infants and most of our squires were tucked away for the night. No Worshippers lurked in the storage rooms or hatched plots in the officers' quarters, at least not that I could hear. Even the medical center was empty, aside from Sawbones hovering on his thruster and the two scribes on night shift standing up to salute.

The mess hall was spotless and the Lab was so quiet, I could have heard a single round falling off a table in Durga's workroom from where I stood on walkways up above. It was emptier down here now that Liberty Prime had been completely packed away. That took my thoughts to Rothchild. I hoped he was sleeping easily, free of the nightmares that Jameson had reported were starting to become an issue. She had at least one scribe on duty with Reginald at all times now.

Only a few red lights illuminated the exit to the bailey, used to help our sentries keep their night vision when wanderers like myself opened doors at strange hours. The bailey itself was nearly pitch dark. It was intimate knowledge of every crack and pit along the walkways that led me to the power armor repair bay. I rolled one of the double doors only far enough open to slip inside.

Ingram’s office and the weapons storage area we called the Cage were near the entrance. I strolled past, halfheartedly inspecting tool racks, workbenches, and the heaviest welding and buffing equipment. A few power armor repair stations held suits undergoing major upgrades. They stood slumped, like tired sentinels, lit up only by the emergency lights near the floor.

We stored functional suits by company, in separate rooms along A Ring East. The Pride had a former conference room for its armor. Abigail's stood next to mine in the office of some long-dead functionary who might have had a role in bringing down the old world, judging by all the scarred oak making up the desk and bookshelves.

My T-45 still looked fierce in the dim light. I ran a hand nostalgically down one arm, wishing none of us had to wear them but at the same time missing its comfortable embrace. Feeling how I could take on the world when I stepped up onto the footplates and the feeling of enhanced eyes and ears the second I engaged my heads-up display. 

The clang of steel hitting concrete sounded louder than a missile launcher at close range.

Well, I had been missing the adrenaline spikes. 

It sounded like a fallen wrench or driver. Maybe dislodged by a radroach that had evaded our cats. 

Or maybe something else. It was why I took another wrench from a pegboard out in the hall, heavier gauge than the fallen one, according to my practiced ear. I closed my eyes for just a second. Cutting the visuals let me focus my hearing.

Another indistinct scrape. Down the hall and in one of the other rooms. A squire? No. They knew very well anybody caught up here after lights out had a worse punishment coming than even Arthur had endured. Hell, one of these rooms was full of nothing but oxy-acetylene tanks for Cicero's squad and their flamers.

As sweetly as my T-45 called to me, jumping in would cost me the element of surprise. So I eased my way down the corridor, letting the emergency lights show me any potential hazards. Another harsh scrape and a grunt sent my nerves into a frenzy. It was the same room Cicero’s Hellfire squad kept their armor racked up. The sound of a punch landing assaulted me. Was it sabotage? Or someone catching the saboteur?

It wasn't until I was actually inside the room that the moan froze me. Because of course it was just some late-night shagging that had put the Elder on high alert, Jesus tap-dancing Christ.

And I could have left. It was dark and both of them were facing the other way. But that damn red hair and the way he was pounding her, fuck. Short, sharp strokes with long pauses in between. The way she gasped every. Single. Time.

It got me so suddenly, desperately hot, I had to duck behind the rack nearest the door before my legs gave out. Cicero was with Messer. The freckles all over her body were the giveaway, though the pitch of that tortured moan was in a register I'd never heard from her before.

"Come on, you can do better." His coaxing tease slid past my ear like butter down a hot slice of toast.

"I'm. Trying," she said. Messer's nearly voiceless stop-starts told me exactly how far along she was. Summary: it was far.

A low laugh rolled over me. It sounded callous, but I'd put caps to spent casings it was exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Try harder."

They were both still facing towards his armor. Handles at the top of the breastplate gave her purchase and a crate under her boots put Messer at exactly the right height for Cicero to slam -- fuck, the ripple of her ass when he did that -- without having to bend his knees. And they needed it. Messer wasn't much taller than I was.

Except for those boots and a tank, Messer was naked, her robes slung over a small fusion generator behind them. Cicero's contact suit was peeled down to his hips, but not past them, damn him. All I got was a view of his entire back and his paladin's tattoo in bold relief, fingers on her hips, wringing out a grunt every time they collided, which was more often now. He was speeding up.

When she moaned again he slowed back to an easier crashing of surf and leaned into her. "I was right, you really can't keep quiet. What, is everybody on watch supposed to come in here and get a load of you like this?"

"You just … want to show off," she panted, swallowing past her lust to get the words out.

"Show you off maybe. Hey brothers and sisters, want to see Messer," and he emphasized the name with another shove of his hips, "lose her mind? Looks good from here."

She leaned her forehead and then her cheek against a steel plate I knew was cooling her right down. This famously mouthy scribe would have given him a comeback if she was more together. But she wasn't, not even close. All she could manage was a guttural “I can’t…” before her fingers slipped off one of the handles. Cicero put it back, stabilized her, then slammed himself into her so hard she lifted up off the crate. Correction — her toes curled up off the crate, and her voice curled up into a high, shivery sound.

The teeth marks I was giving my knuckle might never fade, and damn if I didn’t have to cross my legs and squeeze hard. It was that or unsnap the fly of my suit and -- fuck. Fuck. I needed to leave. Just turn around and sneak back — mother of ghouls, what was he doing now?

He'd been murmuring in Messer’s ear, low enough I couldn’t hear what he was saying. End result was him disengaging — a long disengagement that prompted another thigh squeeze from me. Then he hiked his suit back over his hips and turned, revealing a good four inches of perfectly curved, proudly erect cock rising from the folds of his contact suit.

And those were just the inches I could see.

By the time I recovered, Messer was still on the crate but facing my way. Wobbly-kneed and half-lidded. Flushed from face to tits and on down. Cicero guided first one of her hands, then the other above back to those same handles on his armor's torso plate. Then he nudged her knees apart with one of his.

“Still think you can make me lose it?” Messer asked. She was a study in rosy colors against the black of his armor, though it seemed like with the break, her customary sass had returned. 

Cicero went to his knees so deliberately I couldn’t help the little gasp that slipped out from behind my knuckles. Luckily, Messer’s groan covered it -- once when he sank and again when he spread her with his thumbs and gave her the slowest, hottest lick I’d ever seen. That was before the muscles in his jaw started to rhythmically bunch and release. Each time they did, some part of her twitched.

Fuck leaving. I wanted to see everything Cicero had to offer.

A quick advance to a decisive win, it turned out. He wasn’t down there five minutes before she arched and shivered, her mouth open in a soundless cry as she sent him even harder against her with a leg slung over his shoulder. The sound she did make could have been the start of some drawn-out negative, her tongue pressed right to the back of her teeth, if it hadn’t sounded so much like the coo of a dove. That was the sound of raw completion. I knew — over the years I’d made plenty like it. 

Messer had to push him away from her too-sensitive clit when Cicero would have gone on. He stood up for a languorous kiss and, when he’d had his fill, said, “Good girl.”

She stroked the side of his face, heavy-lidded eyes drinking him in. “Good boy, more like.”

“We'll see. Hands back where they were. Hold tight.”

He helped Messer when all she gave him was a confused look, one that got wiped out by a gaze of sheer lust when he gave himself a few pumps and wrapped her legs around his hips.

I could practically feel it when Cicero sheathed himself. Messer's wide eyes and her fierce grip gave everything away. All eyes were on him, thank fuck. She didn't notice the voyeur in the shadows, struggling to keep quiet, and hold onto a single shred of dignity by keeping the hand that wasn’t still holding that stupid wrench from doing anything unforgivable. 

Still, there I was. Watching the sides of his ass hollow out with each drive of his hips, the flex of his shoulder muscles as he manipulated Messer to get the best angle. 

Then he asked her, “You got a good grip?”

Messer watched him gravely and nodded. I resettled my grip around the wrench, clenching it so hard that H & H Tools would be imprinted in my palm for who knew how long.

When he spoke, I could hear that grin in his voice. Lazy, teasing, smoldering hot. “Hang on then. You’re going for a ride.”

He shifted back, pulling Messer’s lower half out until only her head and upper back were resting against the armor. With her legs still wrapped around his hips and his hands supporting her thighs, he rocked his hips to fully reseat himself.

She let out such a long, needy moan that my eyes snapped to her face. The expression there was beyond bliss. Parted lips. Tightly shut lashes and flared eyebrows. The next out-and-in stroke earned him a soft whimper.

The next? His pelvis tipped towards her, just a degree or two. The next was incredible. He slammed into her. She bucked and shuddered. Cried out loud enough for Cicero to hiss a warning.

I stood there trembling. Sweating. Meanwhile he was calibrating. Adjusting and fine-tuning himself to Messer just like his suit once had around my body.

He set a faster pace this time. Not the drawn-out suspense of before, but not frenetic either, so he might still last. I loved the dark way she was watching him, licking her lips until they looked as slick as the rest of her sounded. Even Cicero was turned far enough towards me that I could see the way his attention drifted from her delta to her face and his smile at what he found there.

The secret ways they moved sang to me. The shelf of his tricep, the way his forearms bunched as he adjusted his hold. How the tendons in her wrists strained as she tightened hers, one sign of a scribe's lesser stamina, but who could blame her? And her face looked like she was determined to hang on for as long as he could last, ankles crossed behind the small of his back, eager to feel that power.

Though it was Messer who broke the tableau after all. “Please. I can’t —“

“But you wanted to lose it,” He reminded her. His words had a prowling feel to them.

“I think … I think you’re there.”

“Don’t think so.” Cicero stopped and moved in so she could snake one and then two legs down and let her boots find the crate. He dropped a kiss on her forehead head and backed out of her yet again. “You’re still talking.”

“So?” she panted, half buried in his chest.

“It means you can still think. So what should we do about that?” He smoothed her wavy, wayward hair and looked around. My heart nearly stopped. But his gaze slid right past me and over to Messer’s robes. “Oh. Here we go. Walk over here with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. "It's not far."

Just a few shaky steps as it turned out. I couldn’t hardly breathe. Barely even blink. Both of them were facing me now. Thank every Elder since the first she was so glassy-eyed and he was focused on her guiding her up to that portable genny and onto a little platform that ran around the base to dampen vibrations. Yet again, the height was perfect.

“See? Told you it was close.”

He got behind her and then reached around to run a pale hand from neck to navel, pausing to give Messer’s nipples the attention that had her grinding back against him. She also rubbed her ass into him in such a sultry way I took a shaky breath. 

His teeth flashed and he dropped his head to nip her earlobe. “Bend over. Show me that gorgeous ass.”

More of the cat emerged in the dip of her lower back and precise way she walked her hands forward over the hump of the generator. Her imaginary tail twitched and Cicero held himself against her with a growl that was just as wild.

Cicero took himself in hand then and stroked while she settled herself down onto her elbows over the padding of her robe. Eyes closed, waiting.

Ohhh, but he liked to play. One thumb pushed the base of his cock down to line himself up. Messer must’ve spread her legs behind the genny to welcome him in, because he said, “Keep them together. Makes it tighter.”

A cough nearly burst out of me. Watering eyes obscured what he did for a moment, enough to make her mouth fall open in a soundless cry when I could see again. He wasn’t moving his hips much, yet there she was, biting her lip. Scrunching her robe in tight fists. Holding her breath and then letting it out in a series of quick pants.

I wasn’t sure what was dirtier, not being able to see where they joined, or the lurid details my imagination filled in. He’d started out shallow and slow. How far in was he dipping? Just enough to wet the tip? Half a shaft? We’d all know it when he sank balls deep, but he hadn’t yet. He was just smoothly pistoning, like the idling cylinders of an Atomic V-8.

“Think you can do something for me?”

Messer’s “mmm hmm” sounded rushed.

Cicero grabbed both halves of her ass and caressed them.

“Touch yourself until you're close. I’ll bring you home.”

"Mmmhhh," Messer groaned as she made contact. I could barely imagine how amazing that must feel. Legs still closed, body still full of him, clit pulsing under her perfect touch. She squirmed back and forth, trying to savor everything, before collapsing down onto her clothes, showing me the groove where her spine dipped and then flared out into a wanton and very freckled ass.

Cicero nudged her thighs apart and ramped up his RPMs, fingers locked to her skin, lids starting to slide closed. Every muscle on his smooth chest stood out in bold relief. His pecs even started to shake with the force of those impacts as, somewhere behind them, two metal parts of his uniform started hitting each other.

"Talk to me," he said, slowing back down again. He closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to pace himself.

Messer managed a "yesss, I'm --" before he started up again, this time really giving it his all. Jaw set, triple timing it, only pausing once or twice for a smoother stroke before Messer bunched every bit of fabric she could find and arched. All I could see were her eyes clamped shut and the way he mirrored it, far above.

"Oh fuck. Yeah. Oh yeah," he said, and I knew he could feel the exact moment it happened for her. He kept whispering it, even when he dragged her up and held her tight against him before he too was done, iron-banded arms across her breasts and belly, securing Messer despite how limp she was. 

I had to wait until he'd turned her around. Then I got out of there and moved silently off down the corridor, glad beyond words that my legs were holding up.

The outdoor chill didn't cool my blood. My slit, my cheeks, even the back of my neck felt hot, as if anyone watching me cross the bailey would have been able to tell just by looking what I'd been up to. But worse than that was how no doors, no blankets, not even a pillow still smelling faintly of Danse could quench the feeling of wanting to track Cicero down a few hours later and take him back to that room.

Instead I had to try to sleep, get up for PT, wash, and chow, and then stand across from Cicero and Krieg in the Great Hall, going over the final checklists for their newest descent into the Metro. With any luck, they would come back with news of a second new station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cicero’s theme song: [Smooth Sailing](https://youtu.be/QetvK6ldl2s)  
> by Queens of the Stone Age.


	17. Chapter 17

 

The last time I'd heard a vertibird come in so low and hot, it had been nose-to-tail full of Enclave Sigma Squad. I shoved my clipboard at Bowditch and double-timed it over to Durga for one of her rifles. Gut instinct clamored for power armor, but my suit was across the bailey and I could already hear shouting from outside. Didn’t matter. I’d fight with what was at hand.

I barreled through the double doors of the lab and dropped into cover, fully prepared for more signs of combat to strike my senses. The buzzing hum of laser and plasma fire. The smells of ozone and smoke, coppery blood and sickly sweet burning flesh. I was ready for anything.

Except a vertibird hovering in the bailey's center. It barely fit. Angled blades sliced through the air just inches shy of stunted trees and power lines. The prop wash was incredible, sandblasting my face and hands. It was hovering mere feet above the bullseye of the retracting doors above the lab in a feat of flying so insane, I could hardly believe it.

I sighted down my rifle at the sight of the first suit of Hellfire armor jumping out of the ‘bird. I’d had this nightmare before. A second suit was descending on ropes but … damaged ? Wait.

A shock of red hair in the sandstorm clued me in to what was really happening.

Out of nowhere, Sawbones rocketed past me, thruster pure blue with heat, his saw blade extended outwards. I sprang up as the robot made contact with his target: a dented, blood-stained T-45. I got a glimpse of an unnaturally hollow chest plate before sparks showered everything in a ten foot radius, keeping me from getting any closer.

“Who is it?” I yelled, pounding on Cicero's armored leg to get his attention.

The hair on the left side of his head was matted with blood. It coated his ear and ran down inside the neck of his suit. His mouth was a grim line.

“It’s Krieg.”

_ No! _

I tried to surge forward. The sparks and Cicero stopped me.  _ He was lying. Krieg wasn’t… couldn’t be… _

But the markings on that T-45 told me the truth. That and the battlefield signs. Hot metal. White, lifeless cheeks that used to be plump from smiling.

I didn’t realize I was too close until Cade nudged me away to staunch a spray of blood and run a stimpak into Krieg’s neck. Then I had to back up even more as three scribes ran up with a stretcher. Another two were yelling at Cicero to disengage his armor so they could check him over. The bird had offloaded and was lifting.

One of Cicero's scribes, a mass of blonde wisps and bloody combat armor, stood looking on, shell shocked.

"Scribe," I practically got in her face despite our height difference. "Do you need medical attention?"

"I'm nominal," she said, watching Krieg's stretcher disappear inside.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"We found the next station," was all she had time to say before Vargas came abreast of us.

"Elder, If you'd care to move inside, we'll start assimilating details."

"Of course," I answered, meaning anything but. A gnawing uncertainty was filling the spot where the fight had been. 

I went to the Great Hall. Started pacing as the officers on duty began taking in reports and assimilating facts. But it was too disjointed. No one had any intel beyond what our radio operators had heard during evac. And it wasn’t right right to be up here when I could be down in the medical wing lending support to … somebody.  

The sound of my boot heels was unnaturally loud as I strode down the hallway. The whole of A ring was silent and still, as if the Citadel was holding its breath. I took the stairs that would take me down to medical only to find that hallway packed, both with people and voices. At some shouting, I started elbowing my way through.

“Order!” I yelled. It got people to clear a path at least. At the entrance to the medical center I saw the reason for the disturbance. Vargas, with Cross at his shoulder, stood facing Marr and Brandis. They flanked the doorway like pairs of statues, absolutely still and stony-faced.

One of Cade’s people, his arms filled with units of O+, ducked past and broke the tableau. My stomach clenched. If Krieg had lost that much blood … or was it for more than one person? Krieg and Cicero couldn’t be the only wounded, could they?

As I neared them it was Cross who continued to stare the others down with unflinching steel. Vargas guided me inside the outer room of the hospital. All of the beds were occupied, with RadAway drips attached to every single patient. More than one IV stand held pairs of bags piggybacked together.

I pulled him into a corner. “Talk to me, Julian.”  

“I was on my way up with the intel when those two started raising hell, right where everybody could hear. ” My brother's eyes were as hard as I'd ever seen. 

“We'll get to that. Tell me what you know.”

“Mutants have a new tactic. Suicide bomber with a mini nuke.” Vargas ran a hand down the back of his neck and squeezed, then he jerked his thumb at the closed doorway of the trauma bay. “Krieg took the brunt of it.”

“Is he…” I couldn’t finish the question. The lump in my throat was too big and hot.

Vargas shook his head. “No word yet.”

The bigger ramifications hit me then. The Worshippers didn’t care about Krieg. They were here because they wanted to politicize this. Brandis and Marr's presence alone meant they’d already started the ball rolling.

But fuck them. The activity in the trauma bay meant Krieg still had a chance. I’d stand vigil for however long it took.

Vargas went back to his post, backing up Cross who’d taken point in the staring contest with the Worshippers. Murmurs and the shuffling of too many bodies in too little space swelled from the corridor, interfering with everything I was trying to hear from farther in.

Scribe Messer came through not long afterwards with a handheld Geiger counter. It was clicking and popping much too fast. “Elder Lyons, it’ll be safer if you wait in the hall.”

“I’ll be all right.” I said even as her eyes skittered past Messer and over to Scribe Mayak sitting up and drawing new Metro maps with a Rad-Away line still in her arm. “Carry on.”

Jameson had the wits to bring me a can of water and one of the smaller Codices from the solar. I mindlessly turned the little onionskin pages, seeing and not seeing, but at least looking like I was handling things. Outside, the murmuring grew. Eventually, it got to a point where Cade’s staff were looking warily from their patients to the door. I stood up, ready to order the crowd to disperse, when the door to the inner room discharged an orange hazmat suit. Red and brown splashes told too much of the story. But not until our chief medic disengaged the helmet could I see how it all ended.

When he saw me, Cade’s minor shift of expression gave everything away.

_ No… _

Walking towards him was an out-of-body nightmare. Everything slowed. Even an eyeblink was like the last drop of mutfruit syrup at the end of winter.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Elder Lyons.”

_ No! _

Stony-faced, steel-spined, I faced him. “Causes?”

“Myocardial contusion, respiratory injury, and cardiovascular ARS.”

“English, Cade,” I snapped. Anger was acceptable. Tears were not.

“The explosion caved in his armor, resulting in massive bruising and hemorrhaging. His heart and lungs were too battered to function. We almost had him stabilized, but the rad sickness presented. Fever. Convulsions. We couldn’t hold him.”

“How high a dose are we talking about?” To my own ears, my voice sounded like it was coming through somebody else’s power armor. Hollow and distant.

Professional concern crinkled Cade's brow, giving him premature lines. “We're working on that. I asked Perez to radio Adams for more radiation chems, and a spare decon unit. I recommend cordoning off B ring until we can determine which isotopes we’re working with.”

“Of course. Vargas…” I turned, but he was with Cross. “I’ll see to it.”

I should join them. It was my duty as Elder to break the news of Krieg’s death. Without another word, I turned and suffered the indignity of having Messer wave a Geiger counter over me.  _ This was not the time! _ If I hadn’t been grieving so deeply, I’d have snarled it. Put Messer in her place. I nearly did until I saw the sympathetic look in her eyes. 

I’d save my snarls for Brandis, for Marr, or any of the other Worshippers who dared to try and twist the situation. For the mutants who’d caused it. As far as I was concerned, Cicero and his Hellfire squad had carte blanche to incinerate every one of those steaming piles of shit, starting with any still roaming around FDR station.

With the deepest of breaths, I prepared myself. Or tried to. This was going to be difficult, but it was my burden to bear. Not Cade’s. Not Cross’s. Mine

All eyes were on me the moment I crossed the threshold. I nodded at Abigail and Julian on my right, clenched my teeth, and offered the other two paladins the same courtesy.

I imagined an invisible prow in front of me next, steel plated and sharp, slicing through the tension the way early season icebreakers carved through the Potomac. I willed more steel plating into existence, inside and around me.

“Brothers and sisters, I regret to inform you that the triumphs of Paladin Theodore Krieg must now be recorded in the Scrolls.”

The wash of silence was like I'd kicked over a pail and sent water sluicing down the hall. So many faces were turned towards me. So many eyes. Krieg’s wife had been gone for years but his other family stood close. I could almost touch his children, both knights, one bearing their mother’s name and one their father’s. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of their family. Another son, stationed at Adams, had yet to hear.

As we began to walk forward, they fell in behind us.

All the knights Krieg had recruited over the years, some now with families of their own, started to move along with us, despite being shattered by the news.

Gunny, Bael, Kodiak. Even Durga joined the procession. She spent what felt like half her waking hours complaining about one thing or another, but had always supported Father. Always understood the need to abide by the Elder’s word.

And yet far too many of the personnel lining the hall just stood as they were, forcing the rest of us to walk a gauntlet. Murmurs rose behind me and those who associated with the Worshippers started to move off towards them, some even staring me down as they passed. Somewhere back there a political millstone was grinding, threatening to crush me underneath it if I didn’t move fast enough.

Glade saluted the moment Vargas, Cross, and I entered the Great Hall. I saw Gallows had already made his way in by some shorter route. By their eyes it was easy to see the terrible news had already arrived. Still, we couldn’t give in to grief. Now was the time to understand. We needed to work even harder to overcome this new menace.

We were still piecing together the layout of the Metro station, when, about an hour later, Cicero made his appearance. Fresh stitches decorated a cut disappearing into his hairline and he moved with jerks and shuffles like a suit of armor that hadn’t been seen to in a month.  

Mayak, who’d been cleared to assist us, rose and pulled out an empty chair for Cicero. It was hard to watch him pick his way across the floor. The red-raw flesh around the sutures and incipient black eyes looked painful. But he had survived. Krieg had not.

No, that thought was unworthy and Cicero didn’t deserve it. It was the grief talking. I squeezed my hands together behind my back until the knuckles cracked.

“We are ready to hear your report, Paladin.”

Yes. If I kept my tone and word choices neutral, I could get through this without any of the acid in my stomach bubbling over into my voice. My eyes flicked over to his knuckles, surprised to see them as tight and white as mine were. Raised them higher to find his eyes shadowed and oddly flat.

“We had to pick our way down.” Cicero’s voice was rusty and hoarse. He paused for a sip of water, wincing when he swallowed. “The Metro computer told us where it was and gave three auxiliary access points from the surface, but the main entrance and two of the secondary hatches were blocked.”

Kodiak frowned and lifted his finger. “Blocked how?”

The corner of Cicero’s mobile mouth twitched, though there was no humor present. “An old statue took a dive across the entrance and some sort of elevated walkway collapsed on top of that. It would have taken too long to clear, so we moved onto second access. But that area was half-flooded and the water was heavily contaminated with some kind of flammable liquid. So we breached the maintenance tunnels through the third entrance point, to the south of the station itself.”

Randomly firing nerves propelled me out of my chair, catching them all by surprise. I slowed my walk and approached the maps we’d managed to construct and pinned to a cork board.

“Here?” I pointed to a pin and looked over my shoulder at Cicero.

He shook his head. “Next one down. That’s right,” he confirmed when my finger touched on the correct location.

“It was a clear sweep all the way past the next hatch to the north.” My finger traced a line from the third pin to the second, then onto the first, nearest the river, when Cicero murmured at me to keep going.

“We passed that hatch underneath the flooded area, it was dry on our side. But the fumes were coming in from somewhere. Everyone could smell it. We had to close the ignition valves on our flamers.”

I was watching the bold black square that denoted the FDR Island Metro station with a growing sense of dread. “What happened then.”

“We were in double-column formation. Heavy then light infantry. Krieg and I were in front. He kept signaling halts and listening because there was this faint beeping sound. Problem was the echoes. Nobody could get a fix on it.”

“We might have figured it out if the fumes weren’t so strong. But the station was downwind of us. And those fumes were covering the carrion smell. A fucking greenskin running at us was the first thing we saw, with that nuke tucked under its arm. Krieg called a retreat the second he saw it, but there was no stopping that thing. Our flamers were off. Nobody dared use a laser because of the nuke, so Krieg, he —“

Cicero swallowed. Then grimaced. Then shook his head. “He tackled it.”

The hall had stilled around us. Everyone was leaning forward, intent on every nuance of Cicero’s report. The way he scrubbed at his wrinkled forehead and then stopped when pulling the stitches pained him.

“He ordered everyone into cover and just ran at it. He —“ the paladin straightened and looked all of us in the eye, “If he hadn’t taken the blast, that nuke would have wiped out at least half of us and maybe collapsed the tunnel. I wouldn’t be here, that’s for damn sure."

With a sigh, he went on in a less angry voice. "The second it was over, I went for Krieg. His suit was so damn hot, my Geiger was like static. His radio wasn’t working. I had to unseal his helmet to tell if he was alive. Then three of my people started to evac him with Mayak on the horn to Adams. I set up a blockade with the others because we could hear the rest of them coming.”

I could just imagine the chaos. Concrete dust cutting the visibility. Beams from headlamps highly visible, sweeping back and forth as everyone scanned for incoming hostiles. Tight or agitated voices over comms with concrete barriers blocking some transmissions. The pulse of lasers and the breath-stealing truth that the only way out was back the way they'd come.

“I would have barbecued every last one of those things if my flamer was working.”

“You’ll get your chance,” I assured Cicero, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. He covered it briefly before letting his hand slide down into his lap.

“We didn’t have the time or the tools to get Krieg out of his armor. The release was slagged. The lancers distributed whatever stims and Rad-X they had, but …”

Cicero shook his head and fingered the stitches in his forehead. Some were starting to ooze, which concerned me. Could be just from the way he’d pulled at them, or it could be after-effects of the rads he’d taken. The rads they’d all taken.

“Paladin,” I said quietly. “You did everything possible.”

Murmurs from the others gave weight to what I said. My eyes touched on the faces of all those present. Some were blank as their minds and emotions processed what Cicero had just told us. Others held varying degrees of sympathy, regret, and anger. None held condemnation — this wasn’t a tribunal. Cicero had done his best under difficult circumstances.

Cicero looked up, hesitated for a minute, then nodded. “Does he have family?”

“He does.” I knew what Cicero was angling at. “We’ll handle that part. Report back to Cade, soldier. Get those sutures reinforced.”

“With your permission, I’ll check on my people first.

I made myself smile. “Something tells me you would, permission or no.”

“Some of them took too many rads. Way too many.” The attempt at humor was lost on him. He was all about his brothers and sisters at the moment.

Cross spoke up then, unruffled and reassuring. “They’re moving the others to the bailey so A ring can be decontaminated. More supplies and volunteers from Adams are en route.”

A fierce surge of affection blasted through me. If I ever lost Abigail…

_ Suck it up. You know you will, someday. _

We all rose when Cicero did. He blinked as we saluted him, returned the gesture, then turned and limped out of the room.

  
  
  
  



	18. Chapter 18

By midafternoon, a comprehensive map and the steps we would need to take to clear FDR station were starting to emerge. But it would take weeks, maybe months, until I was comfortable sending anyone down there again. The “suicider”, as Vargas had named it, might not be an isolated incident. We needed strategies for detecting and wiping out this new threat. Then we’d drill them into everyone, from the newest initiates on up, until their responses were ingrained. Those sons-of-raider-whore greenskins would never catch us out like this again.

I took some time away from the Great Hall to check on the field hospital now taking up a major slice of the bailey. Striding over to it brought me the grimly amusing sight of Sawbones being scrubbed down by a pair of scribes in hazmat suits while his elevator music played. 

It was relatively quiet inside the tent. Monitors beeped from chairs or crates placed at bedsides. Clipboards hung at the foot of each soldier’s cot, listing symptoms and wait times before the next round of chems could be administered.

Neriah, a newer scribe with an excellent head for details, was directing traffic.

“I’m looking for Cade,” I said. 

“He’s in surgery, Elder Lyons. Can I help you with anything?” The brightness of her tone reminded me of a day not too long ago when Neriah and a group of medical scribes had petitioned for permission to start a biosciences division.

“I'm checking up on things. What’s your status here?”

“Nominal. We have ten beds occupied right now. We can’t stim Knight Sorrento until Knight Sergeant Cade reattaches her arm, but that’s nearly done.”

I frowned. “Cade’s been in surgery since they got back. Has he had any breaks?”

Neriah dipped her head a little, maybe to acknowledge my concern. “We’re making sure to spell him. Keep him hydrated. But Cade is resilient, ma’am. We’re so lucky he’s here.”

“Very good. Do you need any more personnel?”

“Thank you, we’re all right. Scribe Goode and Knight Danse have been especially helpful.”

Which made me realized with a pang of guilt I hadn’t thought about him all day. “Wasn’t Danse on that op?”

“Yes ma’am, but light infantry was near the back. They didn't take as many rads.”

The feelings that claimed me were equal parts relief and anger at the West. Combat armor left our junior ranks too vulnerable. If only we had enough power armor to outfit more than the knight sergeants from every squad. 

“What about Cicero?” I asked. 

“We finally managed to get a few stimpaks into him.” She rolled her eyes in the most expressive shorthand for “stubborn patient” I’d seen in a while.

“What do you mean, ‘finally’?”

Neriah pressed her lips into a disapproving line. “The stims they had with them all went to Paladin Krieg. And even though the seals on Cicero's suit were damaged from the blast, he ordered everyone else to take the Rad X.

I passed a hand over my eyes. From what we’d learned, Krieg hadn’t had a chance in hell of surviving, yet Cicero had tried anyway.

“Anyway, he finally fell asleep about an about an hour ago. We had to actually sneak up and stim him while he was out, if you can believe it.”

I actually could. No wonder he’d been shuffling around like an old man during his report. “Where is he?”

“Scribe Goode is with him.” Neriah pointed with her clipboard towards the far end of the tent. Canvas had been hoisted up and tied to the framework, providing some privacy around beds where brothers and sisters were trying not to succumb to rad sickness.

Passing these wounded brought on another wave of guilt. Fuck mission planning. I should’ve been here earlier. But no one here needed to see any evidence of how I felt, so for the hundredth time, I swallowed everything down and balled it up in a place that felt like it might burst from the pressure.

Then I heard a familiar voice. Earnest, full of conviction, that mellow baritone wrapped itself around the verses of our Codex: “And the Founder said, ‘The greatest weapon in times of trial is our ability to choose one thought over another’.”

The words were timely and meaningful. Suddenly, sharply, I wished Danse was reading them to me, not that I was any more deserving. Turning my mind away from Krieg was difficult, but everyone was suffering.

“I can’t do it, I need to see Cicero,” a voice snapped back, full of frustration. I knew that voice. Mayak. 

“Take a deep breath,” Danse replied calmly.

Rounding the nearest tarp showed him sitting awkwardly on a too-short crate. Mayak was laid out and hooked up to Rad Away like the others and with a bandaged calf. It hit me that she was the wispy-haired scribe I’d first approached after the vertibird had delivered Krieg. 

“Thought you didn’t need medical attention, ” I said, holding a hand up to keep Danse from getting to his feet.

“.22,” she said in a terse way that still made sense. Taking small-caliber wounds without feeling them was fairly common when soldiers weren’t in power armor and their adrenaline was up.

“Around here we add ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’,” I warned. But Mayak’s attention had already swerved back over to Danse, who stopped paging through his Codex to look at me with his eyebrows hiked up like the skirts of a farmer’s wife running from ghouls. I sighed inwardly. That must have come out more sharply than intended.

"Good work on the tunnel maps," I tossed out, moving on before Mayak or Danse could reply.

Behind the last partition was the shock of red I’d been looking for. Cicero was sitting on his cot and muttering oaths as Scribe Goode took the stitches out of his forehead. 

“Elder Lyons,” Goode said without pausing in his work.

“Paladin, Scribe.”

“Motherfuck,” said the object of Goode's attention.

Cicero's brother from the Foundry seemed cheerfully unruffled. “Behave, Squire, or no snack cakes for you."

“Good to see you, ma’am,” Cicero got out.“Sorry about — nnh,” he grunted as another pull set his teeth on edge, “this scribe, he’s ten kinds of clumsy today.”

“Seems to have you well in hand,” I said coolly, with a one-sided smile for Goode. “Too bad about that cut. Looks like it might scar.”

“Just adds —“ he hissed “— character. Helps with the ladies.”

“If they like that raider look,” quipped Goode, before I could. It was interesting to see him bantering with his patient despite Cicero's flushed and sweaty face. He was feverish. The ghost of a certain sharp odor told me he’d been experiencing the nausea that went with rad sickness as well. 

With a couple more snips Goode clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “All done. Now if you’ll both excuse me, Scribe Mayak awaits my tender ministrations.” Goode scrawled something on Cicero’s chart and strode out of the room with a polite nod in my direction. Alone, we eyed each other. 

I softened my voice up for someone who was despite the chems, very sick. “Neriah tells me you refused to medicate yourself. For the record, you should’ve stimmed yourself on the bird. Off the record, some ladies might appreciate scars, but most appreciate men who don’t look like Frankenstein.”

Cicero grinned rakishly and worked his shoulder. “Duly noted, Elder Lyons, though in my defense, I’m much prettier than Frankenstein.”

“You won’t be for much longer if you keep this up,” I retorted, jerking my chin at the pink tracks marking his face. 

He gathered himself to take my backhanded compliment in his teeth and run with it, until I speared him with a sharp look. “Button it. I’m not here to …” I sighed. Christ, could I get any more awkward? “Formally, I’m here to thank you for your efforts to save Krieg. From all I've heard, you went above and beyond. An official commendation will follow.”

“And informally?“ he questioned softly.

I’d been struggling with that for most of the morning. In the Great Hall, surrounded by everyone, I told myself I wasn’t going to ask the question. There was no point. But here, with just the two of us, everything else except for my grief faded away. I looked down at the toes of my boots. “Tell me the truth. Did he… did he suffer?”

“No,” was the immediate response. 

My shoulders slumped with relief. In my peripheral vision, I saw him start to reach out, but then just as quickly dropped his hand back to his side. Rapid blinking didn’t dry my eyes, but at least it spread the moisture around enough so I could raise my head and hang onto my dignity.

Regret cut into his features, but sympathy softened his tone. “Krieg never woke up. I doubt he felt a thing.”

Nodding, I took a shaky breath and thanked him, before exiting the tent by the flap near this end. It beat having to walk past Mayak and her doe eyes and left me an unobserved moment to wipe mine with the backs of one hand and straighten up into something that would pass muster. Tonight I could let go. When I was by myself.

Still, I needed a moment. Mounting the crude stairs to my eagle's nest made me feel a thousand years old and by the time I got to the top, my vision was swimming. The river blurred and the husks of buildings beyond wavered. I finally gave up and just leaned on my elbows. The heels of my hands went against my eyes as I silently shook for about five solid minutes. It could have been ten. Wasn't like I was armored, with a chronometer in the corner of my display.

Krieg.

I still remembered him as a young knight, so full of fire. He could patrol for twenty hours straight. Thirty with a short break here and there. He insisted every knight learn to maintain power armor to free up more of the scribes for research. And later, when the T-51s couldn't be babied along anymore, he'd led the move to T-45s without a word of complaint.

And he was outstanding in areas beyond soldiering. For the longest time, he'd been presiding over the grill on half-days and holidays, never serving up anything bloody or burnt. Inventing games for squires, like the hanging-onto-armor challenge, was second nature to Krieg. He’d insisted that they be given as much nighttime freedom as the rest of us could stand. He was a peacemaker without being a politician. Toughest besides Gunny on initiates, but most respected as well. And he’d always been ready with a smile or kind word for me during those endless grey days before the other families and their children had come over from out West.

When I felt hollowed-out enough to stand, I took my hands down and let the wind cool my cheeks. Let it soothe me until this episode of weakness became a secret that only these crumbling walls would ever share. 

Hopefully it would keep me going through the paladins’ meeting this afternoon. Patrols were being called in. Purity and other key posts couldn't be left undefended, but those closest to Krieg would work untold shifts after the funeral in exchange for the chance to attend. Cross was probably already making up new rosters, freeing up those who would be hardest hit.

Except for Abigail herself, of course. And me.

The paladins’ meeting — as expected — was a test of my endurance. Of willpower and dwindling patience. There was no Brotherhood in the Great Hall. There were only Worshippers of the West and the defenders of the faith. Us and them.

What was worse, they were getting to me. Echoing those same doubting voices that I should’ve been the one out looking for FDR station, not sitting here playing at being Elder. They'd said —

_Goddammit._

I slammed my fist down onto a desk after everyone had filed out. No matter how many times I told myself I wasn’t alone — not by any definition of the word — my world still felt smaller and colder nonetheless. And now my hand hurt like hell.

It was no coincidence solace and solar were derived from the same Latin root. I went looking for both, my feet almost unconsciously following the grooves on the stairs that thousands before me had worn into the concrete. Fingers glided over the handrail that was polished by the touch of centuries. I needed to catch my breath. Be truly alone for a little while. 

Yet I wasn't prepared for the emptiness, that met me when the door swung wide. There were no keys clicking softly. No brown eyes reflecting golden lamplight. Was he still with that scribe? Had she finally gotten him alone somewhere?

 _Settle the fuck down_ , I warned myself. _He’s not your chattel._

My boot lashed out and caught an ottoman by the leg. I reveled in the chaos of papers fluttering through the air. I’d was too tightly wound, too heartbroken. Messing up something this colossal had let despair lance me. Punching and kicking random objects wasn't enough to dislodge the pain or even shift it.

Throwing myself against the couch made it scrape across the floor, probably leaving scuff marks. My heart felt worse. Both it and my belly burned at the injustice. Leoni had dared to say I wasn’t fit to lead. There were only Cross and what was left of the Pride left to shout them down. Krieg, my shut-your-mouth champion, who’d gone chest to barrel-chest with anyone attacking the Elder would never defend me again.

Couldn’t the Worshippers see? Their shortsightedness was going to tear down everything Father and the others had built. And for what? A chance to wear the brass plaque on my jacket? Or did they honestly think they could lead better than someone who’d spent her whole life wresting the Capital from raiders and cannibals and everything else that stomped or crept or slithered through this place.

My breath snagged on a sob. I had to roll onto my back and stare at the cracked and unforgiving ceiling. I wouldn't sleep tonight. I’d be at my damn terminal composing another fucked-to-hell-and-back eulogy that would somehow fail to capture how much Krieg had meant to all of us. And then another bleak day. And another. Days upon days without end.

I didn’t dare take a drink. One shot would lead to so many I’d be no good for anything but more useless crying. The training halls were also probably full, what with the bailey still occupied. I needed something, though. Where the hell was Danse?

That was when it hit me. Danse might be hurting worse than any of us.

Krieg had plucked Danse from subsistence living. Given him the chance to shape a new identity and pushed him just hard enough so that he could do nothing but excel. Krieg had encouraged Danse's skill as a mechanic to the point of trusting him with with maintaining his armor, for fuck's sake. Was Danse off somewhere mourning? Blaming himself in some irrational way? The idea of Danse having to face his grief alone twisted my guts. If he’d found company, that was fine. But I had to make sure someone was taking care of him. 

I burst out of the solar with so much force a pair of scribes in the corridor jumped. But I didn’t apologize. My job was too important.

Many sat pressed against each other on benches in the mess, murmuring over lukewarm coffee or snack cakes too sweet for the grieving, bitten once and abandoned. But Danse wasn’t here even though I saw his other squadmates behind a perimeter of well-wishers carefully shielding them from anyone who would sully Krieg’s name. Next, I searched the repair bay. Danse might be tinkering just to lose himself in something routine. But the knights passing a rum jug around in Ingram’s office hadn’t seen Danse. Neither had the watch. And none of the scribes helping those left in the field hospital had seen him for hours.

When I couldn’t find him in the bunkrooms or the training rooms or the Great Hall or the Lab, my palms started to sweat. Where the hell was Danse? And what was happening to him? He hadn't been among those visiting Krieg’s family. I spent the better part of an hour sitting with them, discreetly asking those coming and going and no one knew. 

If he wasn’t up — and I veered away from Abigail's innuendo — then he must be down. There were places Underneath B ring and into the portions of C and even D where even the squires didn't go. It felt too much like my snooping with Cicero, but this was different. If he had company, I would leave. But I had to know.

A tiny sound tickled my ear. I jerked to a halt, threw up the clenched fist that would tell the soldier behind me to freeze, then knuckled the bridge of my nose with it when I realized how stupid that must look. Old habits died hard, just like old soldiers. And wasn’t that a fun thought? 

My ears stretched out. Down a hallway that made up one of the spokes of this five-sided fortress until I heard something I didn't expect. Three rooms down, and it nearly made me jump out of my skin.


	19. Chapter 19

“Checkmate!”  The cry was so loud that Sarah, listening for the tiniest sound, felt like her ears might start ringing.    

Maxson?

“Wait, where?”

Danse?

They were sitting on some long long-dead functionary’s desk in a room where the fluorescent bulbs still worked. Instead of the complete chess set from the solar, they were using Arthur’s scarred little fold-out box with its mismatched pieces of plastic, wood, and stone.

“Elder Lyons,” Danse said, straightening. Maxson jerked guiltily around as well.

“It’s after lights out, Squire.”

“Sorry, ma’am. A lot of us can’t sleep.”  

I neared them, noting the darkness around Danse’s eyes and the way he held himself too stiffly. Then there was Arthur with his brows pulled in and his chest puffed out just a little.

“I see. What are the other squires up to?”

“Shirts and greenskins,” he rolled his eyes theatrically. “Except they haven’t even started. Gill keeps trying to find a good spot to use as a Metro station.”

The squires’ war games gave me mixed feelings. On one hand I knew they just trying to process what had happened while at the same time honing skills that would be useful later. Still, it wasn’t the first time I’d wished they could have longer childhoods. Just another year or two and many of them would go from hubcap armor and BB guns to T-45s and lasers.

“It’s my fault,” Danse said in his stately rumble of a voice. “I asked him to stay after our first game and I didn’t keep track of time.”

I tilted a brow. “How many games has it been?”

It was almost funny the way they looked at each other and shrugged at the same time.

“All right, you can play one more game and then it’s lights-out. Agreed?”

Arthur lit up, as I knew he would, and started immediately setting up the board again. Danse looked on in wonder at my sudden lenience.

“The catch is you have to play me. Also, we’re playing not-chess.”

“Hey, no fair!” Maxson countered, aggrieved.

The moment Danse was out of the way I hopped up onto the table and sat cross-legged. “Trust me, I have your best interests at heart.”

Arthur watched me narrowly, but continued setting the board back up.

“What’s not-chess?” asked Danse, looking on.

“The goal is to lose all of my pieces before my opponent loses all of his. Everything moves the same way, but losing a king doesn't end the game. Also, if Squire Maxson has a chance to take one of my pieces, he’s required to do so.”

Danse scratched his head. “What’s the point of that?”

I grinned up at him. “It’s a much shorter game. Plus, if you play often enough you’ll ruin your opponent’s chess strategies.”

In fact, it took only five minutes to make Arthur, as chipped and dusty black, clear most of my grimy white pieces off the board.

“Freaking heck!” he exclaimed when I placed my last token directly in front of his rook. Danse percussively cleared his throat. I looked over in time to see the knight school his face from near-laughter into something very serious indeed.

They were good signs, both Danse's smile, and the company he was keeping. I was eager to know if Arthur had been the one to suggest they play. But even if it wasn't, I felt like reaching out to ruffle Arthur’s bowl of a haircut.

“Okay, Squire. Pack it up.” I unfolded my legs and scooted off the edge of the desk.

Arthur scowled and pushed his queen around on the board with the tip of his finger. “We only play not-chess when you want to get rid of me,” he accused in a whiny sort of grumble I normally wouldn’t tolerate.

“Not-chess teaches quick decision-making. You think mutants or Talon Company are going to wait for you line up the perfect attack? ”

His scowl eased into a thoughtful frown. “I guess not.”  Still, he offered a very put-upon sigh, before starting to gather the pieces up. Again, Danse coughed into his fist.

My lips twitched in response, but I kept my face in line. “I want you racked out in ten, got it?”

Another sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Arthur latched his chessboard shut, tucked it under his arm and slid off the desk. Just before his exit, he paused and looked over his shoulder at us. At Danse in particular.  He hesitated and with his free hand tugged the hem of his jacket straight.

“I’m sorry about Paladin Krieg.” His voice cracked mid-sentence, but Maxson kept going with a quote. “’He loves the Order best who strives to make it best’.”

Danse nodded his thanks before Arthur ducked into the hallway. What the boy didn’t see was Danse's throat work as he tried to hold in his feelings. Dammit. I should have sent someone to check on him hours ago.  

"Do you want to come back to the solar?" I said and then winced at how that sounded. "Not for — I mean, I wouldn't …”

I stopped. Because it had been on my mind. Hell, the only reason I hadn’t thought about Cicero was because he was in no condition to do anything but rest. I realized now how fucking selfish that was.

"I meant to talk. Or just sit somewhere quiet and not as dusty.” I brushed off the seat of my uniform to help my argument. Left unsaid was my worry that Danse’s adversaries might use Krieg’s death to their advantage. I would fucking end anyone who tried that. But better still was to keep anything from happening to Danse in the first place.

"I don't want to impose," he said politely but also with deep weariness. He looked exhausted

More time went by as I tried to decide if I should tell Danse about my concerns? Or was he resigned to being a target? In a way, it made sense. I couldn’t protect him every minute.

“That's fine," I said at last. My eyes slid away from the bruised-looking circles under Danse's eyes and toward the door. “Get some rest if you can.”

It was only after I’d gone a few steps that his words arrested me.

“How about you?”

I turned back around. His hands were curled at his sides, unspoken words as thick in the air as the dust motes shifting between us. 

“Will you be able to sleep?”

The moment stretched taut before I could make up my mind about how honest to be. “Writing the eulogy is going to take a while."

"Then, if you don't mind, I’ll stop by the mess and then the solar. Maybe find something to read.”

The way my heart ballooned was unexpected. Words, Sarah, use them.

"I'd .... good. I'll expect you."

We took different paths to the surface. I stopped in at the nursery to stroke a few sleeping baby-cheeks. Then I looked in on Faris to ask how the squires were doing and to confirm at least one of them was in his bunk. Activity in the mess hall had dwindled but the coffee was still on, and would be for hours yet. Danse was deep in conversation with some of his squadmates so I walked back to the solar and left the door ajar.

The weight of what I had to do fell on me like a collapsed building the moment I was inside. It was the papers I'd scattered with that kick. My first job was picking them all back up. 

At least the bookshelves were close to being done. The cleanliness would help me and the order still more. Centuries of bravery and sacrifice from history were lined up for me to draw from. The very size of Father's collection -- vast, now that I could see everything -- reminded me that life went on, whether those of us left behind liked it or not.

I dragged one finger along the reference section, across narrow and thick spines, older and newer. A volume of quotations was a good start, dark green with faded embossing on the cover. Some kind of garden scene. I took it to the end of the sofa closest to the floor lamp. Golden light made the words legible, but like with the Codex earlier, it only took a few pages before I stopped really seeing what was in front of me.  

Danse shuffled in an unknowable time later. He looked so unlike himself. Shoulders slumped. Feet dragging. At least he’d made it.

“Come in,” I said. “Shut the door.”

He was still standing in front of the adventure stories a short eternity later. Probably seeing without anything making sense. He might have stood there all night if I hadn’t stood up and taken his hand.  

Danse was hard to get moving. Not resisting, but inert like a cart that had been sitting still for too long. Well, we didn’t have far to go. I guided him over to my preferred armchair, turned him around, and gave him a poke in the stomach. He lowered himself down with a sigh that was only audible because I was listening for it.

"Step two," I prodded, “what are you drinking?”

“Whatever you are.”

He brightened the tiniest little bit when I brought two Nuka Colas back for us from my stash in the inner room. I popped them open on the edge of the dining table, now blissfully free of books and paper. Then I settled onto the ottoman nearby and handed one of my carefully hoarded rations over.  

“To Krieg,” I said. The monumental task of the eulogy was stealing my words. 

Danse was surprisingly apt with his comeback. “The order's best defender.” 

We clinked and each took a long drink. He came out of the swig before I did.

Something with a very squeaky wheel was rolling down the corridor. Maybe the scribes had finally de-radded the infirmary and were putting equipment back. I rolled the two caps around in my hand as my brain slowly started to come back online, like Prime with a new beryllium agitator. Shit. That was another thing we hadn't done.

When the silence started to weigh on me, I put one of the caps on the armrest of Danse’s chair. “For your thoughts.”

He looked at me for awhile, maybe wondering in turn how honest he could be. Then he said, “We should switch seats.”

I smiled at his endlessly pragmatic side. “Except I sat here for a reason. Look.” Chin in hand, I demonstrated how his armrest was at the perfect height for my elbow. There was even enough room to nudge the bottlecap a little closer to Danse.

He drove it in circles with one finger. “I owe you another thought, then.”

“Or a story,” I grew serious again.  

The dent between his brows made me wonder if I’d crossed a line. I wanted to reassure Tristan that no, he didn’t need to haul out anything private to provide some charming anecdote for the eulogy. Right before I opened my mouth, he said, “Just one?”

“More than one, if you want.” So much melancholy colored his voice that my eyes prickled in response. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as his eyes lost their focus. “Did you know Krieg wasn’t my first commander?”

My mind stretched back, sifting through GNN, Purity, and Adams, to dial into a name. “Tomlinson.”

Danse nodded as he guided his cap back and forth. “For all of three days. When he left to join the Outcasts, none of us knew what to  think.”

Some latent outrage of mine interrupted my thoughts. “He took a refurbed T-45 when he bugged out, too.”

Danse shifted uncomfortably and said “I know” so drily that I knew he’d been questioned about that, probably at length. That entire batch of spring recruits, a dozen or so, had been in so much hot water. Cross and Gallows had grilled them for days about what Tomlinson might have said or done before he left. It was why Krieg had stepped in. To erase the black mark left by that cowardly deserter. 

“I’m sorry your team got in trouble.”

He shrugged. “We got lucky when Krieg took over. Would have had it easier under Tomlinson, though.”

The rueful tone of his voice underscored what I knew about the two styles of training: lenient and strict. The carrot versus the stick. Also, the defector and the loyalist.

Danse’s eyes were still distant. “He had us out of bed at 0430 the day he assumed command. He ran us until we started puking our guts out, one at a time. I somehow couldn’t get up after it was my turn.”

I knew that feeling. Running until your chest burned so bad it felt like your stomach had ruptured, and then, when the heaves came, like everything was coming out.

“It had been raining off and on the whole time. Then it started pouring. I was so tired it felt like every drop was just beating on me. And Krieg walked up to me. Thought he was going to — I was to scared to even think about what. But he leaned down, put a gauntlet on my shoulder and said, so I was the only one who could hear, 'Today is the day you turn your life around.’”

Danse fell silent after that. We sat through the footsteps in the corridor outside and a ping from my bedroom terminal before he started up again.

"I don't know why, but it was the best thing he could have said." Danse unconsciously made a fist, "It took hold of something. And never let me go."

His eyes came back to the present, focusing on me as if to make sure I understood. “Every single one of us made it to Oath-Taking. When they gave me my shield I just stood there looking at Krieg, so damn thankful I would still be around to …"

It came on like thunder. The pain in his face. Danse pitched forward and caught it in his hands as if to hold back the shame of it. His big shoulders quaked with the silent sorrow of another loss in our hell of a world. Why was I doing this to Danse -- demanding his company and drawing him out? Just because I couldn't read or didn't want to be alone, I had no right --

"I'm sorry," he gasped, nearly voiceless with grief.

"No, I'm sorry. You're -- " I squeezed my eyes shut, too, and sought his invisible shoulder with one hand. Fuck, my head hurt. Throat, temples, they all felt like parts of a vertibird about to shear off in a hurricane. "I didn't want ..."

But then he took my hand. Grabbed it and hung on.

Somehow that was the cue for all the heartbreak to come pouring out of me. I was shaking too, gripping my eyes so he wouldn’t have to see. My cheeks were wet. I couldn't see for shit. Every part of me ached, and I shook with all the frustration of being imprisoned behind concrete and steel while good, honest soldiers met their ends outside. 

I stumbled away when the first wave had finished pounding its way out of me. There were linen squares in a drawer that might see some use with both of us leaking like this.

Funny how sex wasn’t the equalizer between us. Sorrow was.  

Because It wasn’t a knight who tugged at my hand, and an elder who willingly fell against him. It was Sarah who dried his face with a handkerchief and Tristan's thumb that traced the shining tear tracks on my cheeks.

“Danse —“ was all I could manage before my throat closed up again.

It was like he knew what I meant to say but couldn’t. He was sensitive that way. The wasteland hadn’t yet scoured it away from him. Or maybe he didn’t know. And to find that out, I had to take a risk. So when Danse looked up at me, eyelashes spiky with tears, I hung onto his shoulder like a flood was rising around us. 

“I want to help you. What can I do?”  

His hand still kept hold of mine, but loosely now. He hadn’t answered me yet, but did I really need him to? I was lost in him, fascinated by the velvet of his closely cropped head, the scars I’d started to recognize, and the scattering of freckles I’d never noticed until now. His pulse beat firmly in his throat and I started to count the beats.

One. Two. Three. 

Thirty-two was when he opened his eyes. In between thirty-three and thirty-four was when he said, “I want to forget. Just for a little while. ”

My first thought — I still had to write the eulogy — wasn’t worthy of Danse. Or me. I wasn’t sleeping tonight anyway. A little time with him wouldn’t change that.

So I kissed him. And as we were making our way towards the inner room and he asked about the hotel sign, I shook my head.

“This isn’t about duty.”

My desk chair was so much closer than the bed. Easy to guide him down onto. He smelled warm. He tasted like Nuka Cola. I took my time savoring his mouth and warming him up with just kisses. I wanted a banked fire, one that would keep us warm instead of burning out quickly.

Nudging his nose with mine, I pulled back a touch and whispered, “Is this what you want?”

His liquid eyes tracked me. “It’s a start."

I leaned in. “Then how about you take me to bed?”

He held me so carefully, then. Little did I know it was so he could pitch forward and stand up with me wrapped around him. I laughed with a little spark of joy at this strong, literal man.

When we got there he said. “Now what?”  

I murmured between kisses to his neck. “I think you know how this goes.”

Danse put a knee on the bed and laid me down. Lay down with me, too, tracing the paths of everything he unbuckled, unzipped, and pulled away from me. I loved him stripping me like this. Loved the methodical way he went about it, pausing to lick here, stroke there. When he stripped, I aimed his undershirt directly at the one lamp that was on. The grey cotton shaded it nicely, throwing us into still lower light as we got under the covers. 

It was a piece of heaven to lie together like that, skin to velvet skin. On my back as he rolled my nipples between thick fingers. And sucked. This made him at the same time very serious and very happy. I wasn’t going to question it, though, it felt too good.

He tilted my chin up with his nose when he surfaced for another kiss. Threaded fingers through my hair and tipped our foreheads together. I pulsed, so impatient to be with him, but holding myself back, waiting to see what he wanted.

“You taste —“ he dipped his head and we kissed again “— sweet.”

Then he angled my face to the side with a helping thumb and suckled on the hinge of my jaw. The prickly scrape of his chin and hot wash of breath against the thin skin of my neck raised goosebumps and sent another flush of warmth cascading down. 

I worked my hand in between us and started to scrape my nails along his belly, his inner arm. That made him catch his breath. He tried the same on me. Skimmed his work-roughened fingers along my skin, I shivered, especially when he traced a return path with the backs of his nails. I didn’t tell him to stop, and why would Danse, when it had me sighing and shifting towards him? Rolling over and sliding down to tongue his nipple when I couldn’t stay still anymore. At his gasp I looked up and saw him bite his lip. I smiled around my treat and gave it some fluttering before I zeroed in and sucked hard.

“Sarah —” he whispered.

“You like that?”

“Didn’t know they were so,” he swallowed, “sensitive.”

“Now you do.” There was no way to resist. His cock was full and firm and I gave him a few strokes. “I'm yours. Where else should I touch you?”

“The other side?” he said, with his eyes closed and a hesitant smile creeping in.

Danse was so sweet. How could I not oblige him? Especially with the way he cradled the back of my head and pulled me on top of him so he left a wet trail from my belly towards my heart every time he pushed his hips up. 

“You’re incredible.” Danse looked at me. There was so much intensity in his gaze I felt for a moment like hiding in his chest hair. But then he slotted a leg between my legs and I was saved from having to watch him anymore. I ground urgently down onto it and all around.

My head only came up to his chest height when he rolled us over and that wouldn't work. So, I got him kneeling upright with his spread thighs under mine. Much better. This way he could just fill me with no hesitation or flair, just smooth sincerity, rearing up above as I opened to take him all the way. He pumped experimentally to get a feel for this position. His hands were loosely on my hips, maybe just for contact. I hoped it would be for leverage, soon. 

“Feel good?” he asked, panting a little.

And I have to admit, I rolled my hips and tightened everything until he took a sharp breath. I said, “Outstanding.”

Those eyes of his when he watched himself ease back out — warm, melting. The hum in my throat went up the scale when he slid back home with a tip-to-root stroke.

“And in.” A breathy laugh escaped me. “Instanding.”

The low chuckle meant Danse understood and holy shit, did that jerk of his diaphragm do good things to his cock. I pushed back to show my appreciation, which he took as permission to start fucking. I was of no mind and in no position to stop him.

We started slow. He thrust, I lifted. Unfolded my arms to find the headboard, added a push to see how that felt. Good, really good, then amazing when he snugged me flush against him with a scoop of his hands. I felt light as the pillows that were escaping in all directions somewhere behind us. 

The only thing I did to guide Danse was flatten his palm against me, pressing the heel of his hand down right where I needed it. Somehow, he knew to put a little more weight on that hand. He overloaded most of my senses then.

I gave him a shivery, barely-controlled laugh that trembled through both of our bodies at that crucial point of contact. “Tristan?”

“Mm?” was his instant reply.

"Don't let anybody say you're no good at this."

"At what?" He said with so much guilelessness it didn't register that he backing up and holding himself twitching against my entrance.

“I think you know what," I said, nearly breathless.  

His eyes dropped back down to watch what he was doing. I nearly exploded when his velvet head stroked me as his top hand pressed and circled. Only then did he ease me back onto his shaft with a thrust at the end that nearly made me sit up, it was so intense. He did it again while keeping up that stare of his, dark and dazed, full of lust and every other sin. He was filling me faster now, and so deliciously I felt tingling to the roots of my hair.

His plunges weren’t as well-controlled, either.

“Oh…” I gasped, so close to the edge my thighs were quivering.

And he wasn't even moving when it happened. The match caught. Flared. It lit me up from the inside until every single part of me, temples to toes, was aglow. We were the perfect machine. Every part of him touching every part of me as we rocked together just spreading the warmth around. It was incredible. So drawn out it was like the sand had stopped in the hourglass. My cries got him moving again, galloping towards the finish as clamped down on my hips and held me tight.

When he came, I swore I could feel it. Not just in his muscles and breath but inside me, somehow.

We lay together until our breathing slowed. Me, with an unanswered wish for no cooldown time so we could start all over again. It  was greedy, but I wanted to simply concentrate on the feeling of him moving strongly inside me and nothing else.

But already my thoughts were drifting. Even as I savored the feel of his arms and stroked the fine hairs there, I was with the knights Krieg would never lead and the scribes whose inventions would never guard him in battle. He would never invent any more games for squires or man the grill on half days. Never win more caps off of Vargas or Glade as he scorned their lower tolerance for beer and called them Caravan-rookies. Worst of all, I thought of the wastelanders he would never recruit or the initiates he would never inspire.

“You’re somewhere else,” Danse murmured into the loose waves at the crown of my head.

Contrite, I reached up and stroked his face. “How could you tell?”

He stroked my arms, my shoulders. “You tensed up.”

This time I did hide my face in his chest hair. One more selfish moment, and I’d get up. Throw on some clothes and wake up my terminal.  

I sighed, a gust that inflated my whole body and then left me empty. I didn’t want to meet his eyes. I didn’t want to acknowledge the sword that hung over me. Who was that asshole? Damocles? I wanted to punch him. 

Whatever. Whoever. I unburied my face, turned my head up towards Danse. This time I kissed him slowly, lingering for a minute. This moment, this magic, would be ruined in t-minus five. “I have a eulogy to write. Somehow.”

My pleasure-weakened muscles reluctantly obeyed as I rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed. They started arranging themselves into something approaching composure. Then they melted once again when I felt his lips against my spine. One arm snaked around my waist.

I stroked it. “You can stay if you want. I’ll be up for awhile.”

“Or I could help you.”

My hand tightened on his arm. “I can’t ask you to do my job.”

His sincerity was front and center, never wavering for a second. I didn’t even need to see his face to know it was real. And like that first day, only more softly, he said, ”For Elder Lyons.”

I had to smile. “Is that Father’s name?”

“Yours.”

Squeezing his arm again so he’d loosen his grip, I half turned and said. “Then we’d better get some clothes on.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

I was in the pacing phase, pen behind my ear, hands on the clipboard with my outline, when someone did knock at the outer door. Urgently. Danse looked over from my desk chair, surprised as I was.

Opening the inner door, I called for entry and stood with my hands clasped, as if braced for impact. But it was only Scribe Faris. He had a couple of squires in tow, their uniforms supremely dusty, their fingers and faces begrimed.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

“Ma’am, we were … strategizing," said the boy, doing his level best to stay at attention despite an obvious need to peer at everything in the solar. He was taller and heavier than the waifish girl on Faris's other side.

"Identify yourself," Faris quietly directed and nudged him. "Elder Lyons can hardly see who it is under all that dirt."

"Squire Gill, ma'am," he said, giving his nose a rub and coming back to attention once more.

I recognized the name. Arthur's former opponent. "All right. Go on." 

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I know it's against regs, but we were in the tunnels, trying to find ways around the mutant problem."

Remembering what Maxson had said earlier about shirts and greenskins, I realized the squires had been delving deeper than usual into the Citadel's abandoned subsurface in an attempt to recreate or rewrite today's -- I glanced at the clock -- yesterday's attack. 

"You're aware these activities are banned for your own safety,"

Gill squirmed under my look. I'd done worse during my own squirehood but wasn't about to let this generation know it.

'We understand we have to be punished …" He blinked a bunch of times in a row. I looked to my left to see Danse had wandered in, uniform neatly arranged and his finger sandwiched between the pages of another book.

"Elder I didn't ---," Faris was all bobbing Adam's apple and pink cheeks. "The sign wasn't …."

I waved his embarrassment away. "It's fine. Just get to the point."

"We found power armor!" cried the girl, unable to keep quiet any longer.

"Quinlan," Faris warned her, “wait to be acknowledged."

But Scribe Quinlan's youngest, the one who excelled at electronics, couldn't keep still. "But Elder Lyons said to tell. And we did, ma’am, we found lots of it!"

"And a new Metro station," added Gill, not to be outdone.

The combo left me breathless. Stunned, I tried to school my expression, but as I looked over the heads of the squires to meet the Warden's still slightly chagrined expression, it felt like my eyes were as wide as theirs. “Faris, can you confirm?”

“No, ma'am. I thought it was prudent to bring them here first.”

I nodded. “Both of you, I want you to tell me exactly what you saw. Gill?”

The boy swallowed, still nervous about the potential repercussions of their forbidden spelunking. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Start at the beginning.”

Bravery returning, Gill squared his sturdy shoulders and lifted his chin. “ We were…umm .. four levels down. We opened a door that was stuck and found a new stairwell. We went down the stairs, down a hall and then down a skinnier hall … sorry, I forget the rest.”

The bowl haircut all the squires wore flopped with how fast she turned towards him. “Knew you would.”

When Faris cleared his throat, Quinlan moderated her tone. “Ma’am, there were a bunch of wires and pipes running along the ceiling. Then a bunch of little rooms, some metal stairs, and then a huge steel door, open just a crack.” She said all this while listing off landmarks on her fingers.. “We couldn’t move it, but we squeezed through. That's where we found the armor.”

It was hard to believe my ears. “Squires, this is very important. Did these suits look new?"

Gill nodded. “Yes, ma'am."

"Were they T-45s?"

"No ma’am, they looked different. Helmets, plates, everything.”

My heart thumped harder. All of our T-51s had all been mothballed years ago. But with new suits and parts of the old ones still serviceable …. “How many?”

“Ten” said Gill. “But maybe more? The minute we saw them, we came right back.”

"Remembering protocols might have saved you some punishment," I told them. "Danse, sign out three rifles. Faris, get your tool kit and three combat helmets. We meet at the bottom of the C15 stairwell in 20 minutes. If anybody asks, there's a radroach nest. You two," I turned to the squires, “wait here with me.”

Each of them guzzled a can of water and ate some dried mutfruit out of a coffee tin I brought out. Meanwhile I went in the back and changed my worn-out fatigues for my sturdier contact suit. 

"Squires, follow me to the meeting point."

My skeleton key unlocked a little-used door next to the solar. We took took a short corridor to the part of C-ring that was still accessible and walked from there to the stairs. There, we waited for Faris and Danse to return with the gear. It felt strange wearing a combat helmet again. Heavy, and not like power armor at all. But getting knocked unconscious by falling debris was not an option. The headlamps would assist us as well. 

I rechecked the fusion cell on my AER9 and then slung it. "Faris, take point. Gill and Quinlan you'll be right on his heels feeding him directions, and Danse, you've got our six.”

With some excited whispering among the squires, our motley crew set along the corridor in the opposite direction from where I'd found Arthur and Danse playing chess hours ago.

"Shouldn't we notify anyone?” Danse asked under his breath.

"And miss out on the one adventure that's inside the Citadel?" I gave Danse some significant eyebrow. "Damned if that's going to happen."

Our first hurdle was an empty elevator shaft, or at least that's how it appeared at first glance. Gill reached inside and came up with a length of climbing rope, the same kind field teams had begun using to descend from vertibirds. With hands scrunched up in his uniform sleeves, he took hold of it, swung out into darkness, and disappeared.

"Gill!" shouted Faris.

"I'm okay," he called from what sounded like the floor below.

"Showoff," Quinlan said with a frown. "You don't have to jump down, ma'am. Just walk down the inside wall if you want."

Heart still descending from in my throat, I watched Danse yank hard on the line to test its stability, but the rope didn't budge. Grabbing hold of it, I shone my headlamp up to where the rope was securely tied to a bolt sunk four inches into the concrete and then down to where Gill was peering up at me.

"What are you waiting for?" Gill prompted.

I was starting to see why he and Arthur had gotten into a scrap. Had I been as annoying as he at that age? "How do we get back up?"

"On your right."

Another rope was tied there, this one knotted for easy climbing. Faris went down next.

"Remind me to congratulate Dawes," I told Danse. "Looks like the squires remembered everything from their egg-gathering runs."

Passing the rope behind my left hip and then backwards over my right shoulder, I took hold of it with one hand on each side of my body and rappelled down in a few hops. It wasn't as dramatic as what the squires were doing, but I weighed more and didn't have gloves or know what angle to swing at.

Quinlan nearly collided with me when she came flying through the opening a few seconds later. "We usually stand back," she said with her father's trademark correctness. 

Once everyone had descended, Quinlan and Gill directed Faris down a wide hall that was clearly squire central. Fully or partially assembled robots lined the walls. Makeshift or rusted tools lay neatly on ancient desks serving as workbenches. The magazine and comic book covers that weren't allowed up in dorms were pasted onto the walls down here along with surprisingly good paintings of our sword and gears. The next floor down was a training area, complete with racks of scavenged BB-guns and a firing range. They had even set up a briefing room with folding chairs facing tactical diagrams on a blackboard. But it was late enough that we were the only ones down here. Even the most energetic squires needed a few hours sleep.

When Gill entered the room at the end of the hall and stopped in front of a ventilation duct with the cover taken off, it became obvious how these two had gotten so dirty. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath, looking from the size of the opening to Danse’s shoulders.

Faris must’ve had the same thought. Flicking on his headlamp, he knelt and peered into the dark opening. With total lack of concern for rank or personal space, Gill wedged himself between Faris and the ductwork, grasped the top lip, and slid first one leg, then the next inside. His face, still coated with dust and dirt, swiveled around to us.

“It gets wider in ten feet. Even he’ll fit,” he informed us, jerking his head at Danse. Without another word, he started crab-walking his way forward. A disembodied, echo-y “C’mon!” bounced back to us.

“Can’t fault his enthusiasm,” I said.

“I’ll go next,” said Danse, which made sense. His weight and dimensions might be limiting factors.

He clipped his rifle to the front of his contact suit. Then he lowered himself to the floor and poked his legs into the opening. Adopting the crab walk that Gill had demonstrated, he squirmed forward with Quinlan helping to light his way.

“It’s a tight squeeze,” he reported.

“Keep going, sir. You can do it!”

Smothering a grin, I approached next just as Danse moved out of sight. I wiggled into place and started to scoot forward, finding that the slickness of the metal allowed the seat of my uniform to slide easily. As promised, the duct widened considerably at a three way junction, making the journey far easier. Evidence of rust at a ninety degree turn farther down the line caused me some concern, but the joints seemed solid enough. It wasn’t far to the end after that, and Danse was there waiting for me.

“Let me help you down. It’s a drop.”

My lamp was shining too brightly in his eyes, so I looked away before lowering my hips out of the opening and into his capable. Gill had already left the room, so Danse allowed his hands to linger for a moment.

“Steady. I’ve got you.” As thrilling as this adventure was, his touch still boosted it

We were in a long and low utility room. Cardboard boxes had disintegrated over the years, spilling cleaning supplies and mainly intact lightbulbs all over the floor. Picking our way around them led to a suite of rooms and from there into a broad corridor with offices on both sides.

Faris slowed down to read the plaques beside the doors. "Future-Tec, REPCONN, General Atomics … can you imagine how many tech docs could be down here?"

"All the old defense contractors," I said with rising excitement. Danse and I tried as many handles as Faris read names, but all were guarded by what felt like substantial and complex locking mechanisms.

But the promise of fresh-off-the-line T-51s made me impatient to keep going. My mind was running away with the mutant-slaying possibilities. If there were more than ten units, could we outfit our brothers and sisters who practically lived in the field, like Artemis and Berrings' people at the Monument?

A single unlocked door took us to the utility tunnel Quinlan had described. It was the most silent place I'd ever explored -- no electrical hums, no gas or water pipes hissing. Not even the drip of a leak or the skitter of radroaches. Four sets of prints, two approaching, two receding, stood out in dust that otherwise hadn't been disturbed in probably two hundred years.

There were doors along the tunnel. I could see the squires had tried all of them before finding the one that opened out into a janitor's closet and from there to what looked like a receiving office. I got one look at a curling, yellow Vault-Tec calendar before Quinlan and Gill led us down another flight of stairs. Our boots rang on the steel mesh, reverberating away into what sounded like space of mammoth proportions.

"Here's the door," Gill said, whispering for some reason. We eased through the gap and stood on the concrete of what acoustics and smell told me was a Metro tunnel. Sure enough, the squires soon took us to the edge of a platform. My headlamp gleamed off the tracks beyond.

"Over here," said Quinlan. 

What stood next to her took my breath away.

Armor like none I'd ever seen stood locked to a long, mobile rack, like our repair stations but meant for transport. Massive pauldrons sat on top of a completely reconfigured torso. The whole waist area of the suit was much better articulated than anything I'd ever seen, even though it still looked solid enough to take a blow from a super-sledge. I ran my hand along the narrow seams on the leg plates, machined to such a high tolerance they looked like single sheets of steel.

"Faris, what are we looking at?"

He chewed his lip, unable to take his eyes off the gauntlet he was examining for even a second. It was Danse who spoke instead.

"It's a West Tek T-60," he said reverently.

Faris gazed up at the helmet with the eyes of our youngest children seeing an armored knight or paladin for the first time. "Ma'am, I think he's right."

"Ho-lee shit," I murmured, only realizing when Quinlan tittered that I'd said it out loud. 

And just as reported, there were ten of them.

My heart beat fast and strong. Stories about how gear like this was being tested and shipped out right before the Great War got passed around like cherished bottles of whiskey. Until that moment, I'd thought they were just old scribes’ tales. Yet here these suits were, arrayed in front of my very eyes, factory-fresh and gleaming.

“They don’t stand a chance,” I whispered, looking into the fierce optics of the nearest suit.

Danse was the only one paying attention, and barely at that. “Who?” he asked, not able to take his appreciative eyes off the hardware and with reason. Father’s dream of a peaceful, unified Capital wasteland stood right here in front of us. 

“The Enclave. Talon Company. Any ghoul or greenskin we lay eyes on."

An intense urge flooded me — I just had to be the first pair of modern boots to climb into one of these suits. Rounding the first suit in line, I cursed silently. No fusion core.

“Gill, Quinlan, sound off.” I called out. Emboldened by the presence of adults, they’d spread out to explore. A whoop and a jiggly, erratic flashlight marked Gill, homing in on me. Quinlan arrived with a skidding stop and panting breath. Both squires were beaming, teeth white against the grime.

I couldn’t help but grin in response. “You two happen to see any fusion cores or generators down here?”

We needed light, and lots of it. Best case scenario was an operational power supply. Humping our own power down here would prove difficult given the tight and meandering path. 

"Danse, Faris, spread out and see what you can find. You two too,” I said, waggling a finger at the squires.

Quinlan was already gone by the time my hand dropped back to my side, a faint giggle at the wordplay wafting back to me.

Counting paces, I started back towards the huge door we'd exited. A sign I hadn't noticed on the way out said West Tek Receiving. All of a sudden, every hair on top of my head started tingling. Getting a generator working became the most important mission of my life. 

Racing up the metal steps made them ring. The sound bounced off the wall to my left and into that cavernous space on the other side. There were light switches in the windowed office at the top, but they were inoperative. I looked for keys next, scanning every vertical and horizontal surface. On shelves. In drawers. The room became a flurry of dust.

Smaller boots came pelting up the stairs half a minute later. "Ma'am?" said Gill, "Your lamp was going crazy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, though excited to the point of agitation would have been more honest. Keys.

"Scribe Faris found some fusion cores.”

"Tell him to bring them up here. Double time!”

Gill hung out of the door to the stairs. “Ginny!” he yelled and then shrank back at the sound of his own voice echoing back from the opposite side.

"What?" she hollered back.

Where were the damn keys?

"Tell Knight Danse and Scribe Faris to come up." Gill, bolder now, was starting to enjoy the way his shout carried.

"Why?"

"Because Elder Lyons said so!"

"Got them!" I called at practically the same moment. They were on a ring hanging from the same nail as the old Vault Tec calendar.

I dashed back into the utility tunnel. I tried fitting every key on the ring into the door next to the one we’d come in through. The third to last one fit, revealing a bathroom.

A file storage room was behind the next door.

I heard more boots on the stairs and bodies in the corridor behind me.

Some lockers and chairs around a table were all I found behind the third door. Dammit!

"Any sign of a generator?" I said to whoever had come up behind me. My fingers were shaking so hard I dropped the keys

"Not yet," said Faris. "Ma'am, what --"

"Find one," I ordered and sorted through the keys again. They'd gotten all jumbled in the fall.

"Deep breath," Danse said, his bass register gently insisting. I straightened, quickly sorted out which key was which. And fitted one into the fourth door on the line.

It opened onto a generator room. There were three of them, all in good repair. Thank all the fucks of every Elder who'd ever lived. 

I strode over to the nearest one and yanked the spent core out, dropping it with a clang. "Faris, tell me you brought one."

Danse was closer. He passed me the yellow cylinder and without a word I plugged it in, whirled, and raced past the others at top speed.

The switches nearest the door turned the office lights, throwing my wide-eyed, dirty reflection back at me from a bank of windows on the far side. Underneath was a control panel with many switches and one telltale glowing green. I rubbed furiously at the dust of ages to find the words I was looking for as the others caught up. As they fitted themselves in behind me, I found the master control switch for what I desperately hoped were the lights beyond those windows. Lights that would show us our future.

Bank upon bank of fluorescents hummed to life. I saw girders, automated cranes, a whole gridwork of metal on the far side of the room. It was filled with rack upon transportation rack, just like we'd seen outside, each one with its own complement of West Tek T-60 power armor. 

They were stacked to the ceiling.

Forklifts and tugs parked nearby were dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of that cliff of war machines, every one of them ready to enfold a loyal brother or sister as they went out to bring order to the chaos outside the Citadel's walls.

There were hundreds, maybe thousands of suits.

“Fuck me,” I breathed.


	21. Chapter 21

Abigail Cross. My shining star paladin. As bright as Sirius. As unflinching and yes, as aggressive as Mars. Her eyes snapped with dark fire. Her words cut to the bone, yet she consoled. Uplifted. Made us laugh when those of us with consciences felt like we should be crying.

I did shed some hastily swiped-away tears when she broke protocol and circled behind Krieg’s pyre. Or did that count? Was there some unspoken rule that said she couldn’t lay her hands on his shroud with such reverence? The wave of throat clearing and muffled sobs said otherwise. Knees locked, some with outrage, and some with unbearable grief, while waves of shocked murmurs and malevolent whispers rippled out from the epicenter of Kreig’s earthly remains.

Cross bowed her head. Her lips moved silently as she said her final goodbyes to her contemporary. Her ally. One of her oldest friends. 

And then? Her chin rose. Her armor gleamed as brightly as her eyes, brilliant and courageous and deadly. Facing us, she spoke:

“Only the dead have seen the end of war. We, the living. Those left behind….” Her eyes fell on Krieg’s family, arrayed at the front of the assembled ranks. Those eyes softened as her expression shifted into sadness before hardening again. “We have to fight on. Each one of us.”

I wasn’t spared her raking gaze. None of us were. To her credit, she didn’t linger on one faction any longer than the other. Midwest, East, and West coasts. Allies and opponents. Some of us stiffened with pride, others with insult. I began to make a mental tally as patterns emerged, old and new. These were battle formations, nothing more and nothing less. 

And then my star paladin fanned the flames even more.

“Paladin Krieg sacrificed his life for all of us. For his Elder and for the good of the Brotherhood of Steel. Who will be the next speaker to honor him?”

Of course she knew what was coming. Planning and executing last rites has been Abigail’s duty for years. Yet here was yet more evidence of Cross’s ability to make every moment feel like it mattered.

Krieg’s youngest son was one of our new lancers. On the average day he showed all the swagger of any brother who was closer than average to a fiery death. But you couldn’t tell that from looking at him today, head bowed as the sun touched us and then abandoned us again. He read from the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands with no tremor in his voice, only self-conscious pauses to clear his throat past what had to be lump the size of a mirelurk. Still, he called for brothers and sisters to stand in unity. That the Brotherhood was nothing without it and if we wanted to honor his father’s memory we’d forget any differences in our order and follow our Elder to a new era of peace for the wasteland.

I snuck a look at Cross after this obviously favorable speech, but nothing indicated she’d known anything about what the youngest Krieg was going to say.

The Pride had wanted Vargas to memorialize Krieg, but an important errand meant the honor fell to to Kodiak instead. In a voice like his namesake, the burliest, gruffest, six-foot-plus champion of the super sledge spoke of much I could relate to. What it was like coming up under Krieg’s tutelage. How he’d drill us until split-second decisions became muscle memory and we were so tired at night some would fall into bed with their boots on. Krieg had shaped the Lyons’ Pride and his hand was in every convention we used for training at the Citadel, now and in years to come.

Approving murmurs followed Kodiak’s return to the ranks, but they changed in tenor when Danse got up to take his place. I saw Cross stare daggers at those assembled, daring anyone to protest.

When he’d had time to think of anything was beyond me. Maybe in the process of helping me build what I’d had to say? But what came out of Danse wasn't lyrical or full of quotes. It was short and very personal.

“The moment Paladin Krieg walked into the Rivet City marketplace on his recruiting run, I knew he was different. He was what each and every one of us over there wanted to be, if we only looked deep enough inside.”

Danse’s gaze, even and calm, swept over one particular group of his brothers and sisters in arms, and I followed with my own eyes. Krieg-kappa. Krieg had drilled them too well to show anything less than perfect form while at attention, yet I saw something steal through them. A breath of air carrying the barest echo of parade ground cadences, gruff insults, and end-of-day looks that raised their chins and firmed their shoulders.

A deep breath inflated Danse’s chest. “Krieg recruited me. Sponsored me. He pushed me so hard I thought I’d never survive another day, let alone a week in the Brotherhood of Steel. But a week turned into a month. A month into two, then four. Each day, each week that went by, I found a little more of Krieg inside me. More courage. More strength. More decency. It didn’t take me long to realize that these were the very same qualities that Codex strives to instill in us.”

A small prickle at the sides gave me warning enough to avert my eyes over Danse’s shoulder. Small sips of air through my nose and rapid blinking got my tear ducts back under control. Would have curled my fingernails into my palm if I hadn’t been suited up. I urged myself to think of Vargas and what he was doing for us. 

It was futile in the end. Tears spilled down my cheeks as the last words of Danse’s quiet speech recalled some of the first words: “He’s inside all of us, if we only look deep enough.”

Danse had touched on the very essence of Krieg in a way that was both heartening and heartbreaking. And now, as he regained his position with his brothers and sisters, my insides clenched. My allies had spoken. It was time for my detractors.

I hadn’t questioned Cross regarding the scheduled speakers. She might not have even told me if I had. After all, she had decades more experience with all of this political bullshit. My star paladin had her own chess games underway, flesh-and-blood knights and paladins in place of their jet and ivory counterparts. I had to trust in her.

As Marr took Danse's place, I had to concede that he cut an impressive figure. He always had, even before the black in his beard became overtaken by silver. In fact, the silver added gravitas to his face and highlighted his piercing stare. Which was now fastened on me.

Well, I’d learned enough to parry this silent attack. Expectant politeness filled my face. I nodded then, as if giving him permission to speak. The realization came a second too late — it was possible that I walked into a silent trap he’d laid, as his eyes narrowed and he returned my nod with a gracious bow of his head and shoulders. Marr clasped his hands behind his back, and he surveyed the assembled for another silent moment before he spoke.

“Our Elder has lost a champion.”

I stiffened inside my armor. Goddamn him for being such a devious, brilliant bastard. On the surface, it was merely a statement acknowledging Krieg’s stature and our loss. Below the surface, the undertow of his secondary meaning sucked at my legs.

Marr paused then. Nodded at me once more. Started his attack in earnest. Blow after blow, each disguised under a veneer of sincerity and civility and “the best course of action for the Brotherhood of Steel”, until I began to simmer with impotent rage. How fucking dare he turn Krieg’s death into a call to circle the wagons? To pull back in, hunker down behind the thick walls of the Citadel, and let the mutants and raiders and scavvers fight over the scraps of DC.

He thumped an armored fist down into his palm, and his voice thundered with his closing remarks. Tradition. Caution. Greater restrictions in this time of uncertainty.

My vision narrowed into a tunnel, focused on his triumphant face. I wanted to kill him. Crush his windpipe with the augmented strength of my T-45.

As Marr blended back into the ranks, the murmurs and shuffling told me how far his rippling banner of a speech had unfurled. I saw dark looks from the Pride and Krieg's family, but plenty of nods, as well. I heard whispers -- like wind through dry grass. Just one spark and the flames would start licking at each and every one of us, reaching out to consume the Citadel and everything it stood for.

I almost didn’t see Maxson step into the clearing, all too-short sleeves and the kind of pink-cheeked seriousness that would have made me smile on a normal day. Both of Cross’s eyebrows lifted as I glanced her way. Maxson wasn't on the list.

By any logic, I should have waved him back. He hadn’t learned half of what I had to teach him about speechmaking and was too young. Though squires weren’t banned from attending funerals, they definitely weren’t encouraged. The hope was that by having smaller memorials with their dorm mates and family members we could spare them a little of the reality they would have to face all too soon. Not to mention the smell of the pyre once it was lit.

And yet here was Arthur, willing to speak in front of half the Citadel despite trying his damnedest to avoid recitals at first. The reversal was as fierce and decisive as a young radstag trying to defend its territory and pounded at my instincts in pretty much the same way.

So I met Arthur’s eyes. Nodded.

“Paladin Krieg was smart,” he said once the latest wave of whispers had died down. “He knew he was on death ground.”

Half an army sucking in its breath wasn’t something I’d ever heard before. Or ever wanted to hear again.

“I know that sounds strange.” Arthur went on in a voice that was still so damn childlike, every syllable driving home how fucked I was for letting him open his mouth. “But a general who beat an army that had thirty soldiers for every one of his wrote this, so we should listen.”

Tension wound me ever tighter. Maxson had maybe five more seconds before someone shouted him down. Those clouds hiding and showing the sun were going to close in, just like this audience, and shadow everything he ever said and did from now on. I shut my eyes against that future.

“This general ... he talked about a place called death ground, or desperate ground. It’s when a river or a fire is blocking any chance of retreat. He said that soldiers on that kind of ground fight like they never have before, because they have no choice.”

Maxson’s voice cracked on the last word. He stopped. But then he drew the moment into a pause and looked slowly around at every face turned towards him, including mine. And with open eyes now, because I knew which general the boy meant. Arthur had been reading ahead.

“So I hope if I’m ever on death ground, I’ll know it like Paladin Krieg knew. Because then something above and beyond might get pulled out of me. And then,” Arthur swallowed and tightened his fists, “even if I go down, I’ll fight for every second I can last, or breath I can take. That was what Paladin Krieg did. And the troops, the lancers, the medics — everyone who got him out and got him back to us, none of them stopped fighting for a second. They knew they were on death ground too." 

For this next pause there was a silence. I couldn't swallow past a dry, thick throat, but the urge to catch Arthur up in steel gauntlets and lift him over all of us was rising up inside of me.

“Even today, we’re on death ground. And that’s why… we have to keep fighting.”

As Arthur regained his position with few other squires in attendance, the whispers grew into murmurs. There were dark looks from the Worshippers. Their eyes rested on Arthur Maxson. Long enough for awkward adolescence to once again to shadow his astonishing maturity. His shoulders curled forward and his head sagged as if the speech had cost him.

But then, to my intense surprise, Kodiak broke ranks with the rest of the Pride. His stroll was so casual, so matter-of-fact, that for a solid few seconds I thought he was just off to take a piss. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

Nope. I was wrong.

Kodiak stepped in beside the handful of squires. Well, one in particular, and damn if I didn’t have to bite my lip to keep from cheering. Arthur’s gaze traveled up Kodiak’s legs and torso. Up, up, way up, to his face. His shoulders slowly straightened. His thin chest pushed outwards and his chin rose.

Goddamn, but I was proud of them. The timing was beautiful too.

The deep breath I took was not only one of pride, it was also of preparation. Unless there were any more speakers…? A sideways glance at Cross caught her watching me expectantly and she gave a little motion of her eyes towards the front.

Right. I was up. Charge ahead, don’t dick around.

“I had a speech prepared, one that took me hours to compose," I looked to Danse in silent thanks for all his help. "It was hard to find words grand enough to honor Paladin Krieg. But those who spoke before me have done that. Admirably. And so I’d like to speak to the greater question we face today.”

“Paladin Marr was right. I’ve lost a champion.” My eyes speared over to him, tucked snugly in the folds of his like-minded, closed-minded companions.“We all have, from the youngest to the oldest amongst us.” I paused for three long breaths to let that point sink in before making my next.

“Yet loss is always tempered with gain. Two sides of the same cap. Our Founder’s people had lost most of their families. Their world. Their trust in a system that had made FEV a reality and used it to experiment on humanity. They had lost even more than we have today. But I wonder — what would’ve happened if Roger Maxson hadn’t led his people from Mariposa to Lost Hills? Mariposa was secure. They didn’t have to leave. Yet they knew they had to move forwards.”

"What if we hadn't built the first airships? We wouldn’t have the Foundry."

“What if Owyn Lyons hadn’t pushed eastwards? We wouldn't have the CItadel."

“What if Lucy Augustine had stayed in her vault? We wouldn’t have Project Purity or Adams. We wouldn’t have lancers at all.”

“What if, when squires used to come up from the lower levels with cuts upon sprains upon broken bones, Krieg hadn't argued against sealing those areas off forever? Many of those assembled here wouldn't have the drive or the guts to really explore."

“Pushing forward after a loss is what we have always done.”I swept my eyes around again. I took in all the faces, the crushed, blank, haughty, expectant, or sad. “Pushing outwards is why we thrive. I want to make very clear to everyone that this is something Krieg fought for all of his life. And it’s how we should honor his memory.”

I saluted the pyre with fist over heart. “Ad victoriam, Paladin. You were our brother, our mentor, and yes, our champion too. We are less for having lost you. And yet, you will soon bring us more than you’ve ever brought, if we honor your lessons and keep reaching out into the frightening dark.”

Head bowed, I waited for Gunny’s orders to ring out across those assembled. The firing squad presented arms. They aimed. And with three fiery blasts, they set the pyre alight. 

When I looked back up, it was Cross who met my eyes first. And though she was trying to keep it quiet, I could sense her misgivings about the turn my speech had taken. It took her exactly half of the way back to the gate to tell me so.

“Speaking to their arguments gives them weight,” she muttered, trudging along at my side. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t give them any attention. Owyn always rose above it.”

“Should I have gone with my original speech?” I said, letting innocence color my voice.

“We can’t afford to lose more ground to them. And the vagueness: ‘more than Krieg's ever brought’? What were you trying to say?”

We kept muttering back and forth all the way up the slope and past the Citadel’s massive gate. By the time most of us were back in the bailey, Kodiak had joined us and was saying much the same thing.

“Don’t mean any disrespect, Elder Lyons,” he rumbled. “But is it worth giving them any time of day?”

I glanced around at the mourners. The weather had cooperated enough for our solemn noon meal to be moved out here. Even if our hearts were sore, at least we could fill our bellies in the fresh air. 

“Let me make this one quick announcement and I’ll talk to you about it. Everyone!” I raised my voice. “If you could direct your attention the repair bay, there’s something Paladin Krieg would have wanted you to see. Squire Maxson,” he jumped to bewildered attention as I pointed to the sliding double doors. “Run over there and tell Paladin Vargas to come join us.”

Arthur took off as ordered towards the portal that, when completely open, had room for three T-45s to stand abreast. Right now it there was a slot only wide enough for a squire to slip through.

From my left came a sharp sigh. “Julian should’ve been present for the ceremony, Sarah.”

To my right, a half-amused, half-disgruntled complaint: “And here I thought he was taking a shit. What’re you up to, Top?”

I got to the count of five before Maxson reappeared, stumbling backwards. His narrow face whipped around to gape at me, and I had to lock down the triumphant grin that threatened to crack my face wide open.

As one, Kodiak and Cross both turned to me, identical questioning frowns denting their foreheads, both pairs of eyeballs probing for answers. Ignoring them both, I called out to Arthur, “Open it up, Squire.”

I received an immediate, awed “Yes, Elder Lyons!”, then Maxson hooked his fingers on the edge of the door and rolled it back.

Fittingly enough, the sun chose that moment to break through scudding clouds. The light was watery and weak, and there were no portentous rays beaming down, but I didn’t care. Not one fucking bit. Not when Vargas stomped out of that open doorway. The sunlight loved that T-60, every square inch of it.

“Give me a hand up,” I told Kodiak. It was hard to act so casual when I felt like pumping my fists.

Gasps grew into a hubbub that filled the bailey. It swelled even more as Vargas came among us and turned to face the low wall I'd managed to ascend. Questions whistled and buzzing through the air like mortar shells. Like vertibirds diving.

“How’s it feel, Paladin?” I called.

It was obvious, even through the speakers, that the leader of the Lyons’ pride was having more fun than could be packed into a weekend at Rivet City.

“Like I could take on all of Talon by myself.”

A little cheer went up. But Brandis made this way to the front of the crowd, practically spitting fire. “A pet project, Elder? With more of our precious resources?”

“Sullying Krieg’s memory with these theatrics,” sneered Vasquez, on Brandis’s heels and snapping at mine. “It’s not right.”

This time I gave them a flash of canine, a throatiness of voice. “These 'theatrics' as you call them are as fitting as that fully-calibrated suit and I’ll tell you why. Outside the gate I explained how Krieg fought to give squires the chance to explore. So without Krieg’s vision, our youngest brothers and sisters squires would never have discovered this West Tek T-60 underneath the Citadel last night.”

Half the tongues in the bailey started echoing these words. Citadel. Underneath.

Cross might not approve of an Elder openly scoffing at the Worshippers, but Krieg sure as hell would. So I scoffed right at Vasquez.

“Pet project? As if could keep something like this secret for more than a few hours. You think I don't want to jump into one of those things right now?”

A ripple of laughter claimed the thickening audience. Some were still filtering in from outside, others spilling out of A Ring on the heels of whoever had dashed inside. It still took a few seconds before the full import of my words sank in.

“One of those?”

“Elder how many!” 

“Dibs on number three!” called Bael in her booming voice.

Those nearest Vargas weren't even speaking. They just inched closer, their desires to try a suit on or take it apart, struggling, like angels and demons for the upper hand. 

The adrenaline felt so damn good. I wanted to give all of them as big a rush as was coursing through me, “There are enough T-60s under our feet to outfit every soldier we have down to the rank of knight. And more.”

My hair was in its usual ponytail, but the cheer that met this news felt powerful enough to blow it back. Knights were embracing, slapping each other’s backs. The squires who had made it outside were scrambling up any surface with the smallest toehold to be able to see. Krieg’s youngest son, the lancer, fainted into the arms of his family, who caught him, laughing.

I smiled. Whatever callsign arose from that moment was going to stick with that brother for the rest of his life.


	22. Chapter 22

**Citadel Leaders and Staff**

Elder Owyn Lyons (deceased)  
Elder Sarah Lyons  
Star Paladin Abigail Cross

Paladin Bael, Warden of the Gate  
Paladin Berrings, leader, 2nd Monument Defense Detachment  
Paladin Gunny, senior drill instructor  
Paladin Theodore Krieg, head of recruiting

Knight Captain Artemis, a field officer  
Knight Captain Durga, quartermaster  
Knight Sergeant Ingram, supervisor, power armor repair bay  
Knight Sergeant Senna, commander, Valdez-iota squad  
Knight Dawes, Day Warden of Squires

**Lyons' Pride Elite Unit**

Senior Paladin Julian Vargas, Pride Leader  
Paladin Glade, heavy weapons specialist  
Paladin Kodiak, melee specialist  
Knight Captain Irving Gallows, recon specialist and head of intelligence

**The Foundry**

Elder Bernard Montgomery O'Leary  
Paladin Marcus Cicero, an officer of some ambition  
Knight Sergeant Cade, an accomplished medic  
Scribe Goode, a cheerful medic in training  
Scribe Mayak, a less cheerful archivist  
and others

**Krieg-kappa**

Knight Sergeant Lamoureux  
Knight Cutler  
Knight Tristan Danse  
and others

**The Worshippers**

Paladin Brandis  
Paladin Marr  
Paladin Valdez  
Paladin Leoni  
and their pernicious followers

**Orders of the Sword, Shield, and Quill**

Scribe Bowditch, Proctor, Order of the Shield  
Scribe Faris, Night Warden of Squires  
Scribe Jameson, Head Archivist, Order of the Quill  
Scribe Messer, Physics Instructor, Order of the Sword  
Scribe Neriah, assistant to Cade, Order of the Shield  
Scribe Peabody, Proctor, Order of the Sword  
Scribe Cecil Quinlan, archivist and Codex Studies instructor, Order of the Quill  
Scribe Reginald Rothchild, Head Scribe, Order of the Shield  
Scribe Teagan, Head of Operations, Order of the Shield  
Scribe Vallincourt, senior assistant to Rothchild, Order of the Shield

**Squires**

Squire Combes  
Squire Jeffrey Gill  
Squire Arthur Maxson  
Squire Eugenia Quinlan

**Robots, historical figures, and other entities**

General Constantine Chase, U.S. commanding officer of the Anchorage reclamation  
General Jingwei, Chinese commanding officer of the Anchorage reclamation  
Liberty Prime, a U.S. military asset  
M.A.R.Go.T, the presidential Metro's computer  
Sawbones, the Citadel's automated medic  
Spot, a supermutant behemoth  
The Lone Wanderer, a Brotherhood soldier of some renown  
Three Dog, the human host of Galaxy News Radio


End file.
